


Word Soup

by DiscontentedWinter



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Slavery, Archive Warnings do not reflect every chapter, Autism Spectrum, Because these range from total fluff to very dark, Check chapter headings for more specific tags, Derek Hale as Superman, Domestic Violence, Drabbles, Kid Fic, M/M, Pirates, Sheriff Stilinski's Name is John, Tags to be added, kitty!stiles
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-01
Updated: 2017-09-13
Packaged: 2018-05-17 15:11:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 43
Words: 75,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5875648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DiscontentedWinter/pseuds/DiscontentedWinter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of Teen Wolf drabbles crossposted from my Tumblr here: <a href="http://thisdiscontentedwinter.tumblr.com">thisdiscontentedwinter</a><br/>I'll add more stories and more tags as they happen.</p><p>None of these chapters are related to each other.</p><p>* Please check the individual chapters for the corresponding relationship tag *</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Close the Door

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Лучшие друзья](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8176207) by [Nymphalidae_Danainae](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nymphalidae_Danainae/pseuds/Nymphalidae_Danainae)
  * Translation into Русский available: [Пушистое желтое полотенце](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8659687) by [Nymphalidae_Danainae](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nymphalidae_Danainae/pseuds/Nymphalidae_Danainae)
  * Translation into Русский available: [Стажировка](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9109426) by [Nymphalidae_Danainae](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nymphalidae_Danainae/pseuds/Nymphalidae_Danainae)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pairing: Stiles/Peter.   
> Stiles/Peter/Chris?

 

\------------------

A note on this chapter: I didn't tag this as dub con or non con, because I wanted to leave that up to the reader. It could read as non con, but it could also be a game. It's your decision. 

_____________________

The Stilinski kid is a twitchy little bastard. Not that Chris can blame him, really. He’s been thrust into a world he doesn’t quite understand–who does?–and he’s the weak link in a group of kids who are all stronger, faster, and better than he is. Still, he turns up to every fight with squared shoulders and his trusty baseball bat, and Chris finds something very admirable about that.

He’ll be dead before he graduates high school, but still. Admirable.

Chris keeps an eye on the kid.

On Stiles.

He’s a study in contradictions. Intense and focussed when he absolutely needs to be, but mostly he never keeps still. Always moving, always talking. Even when everyone else is wrecked from a fight and slumped on couches in someone’s living room, Stiles has always got a leg still jiggling. Too much energy. All that adrenaline, and Chris has never seen him crash.

He’s smart, too. Ninety percent of what comes out of his mouth is pointless, relentless bullshit, but it’s almost worth it for the ten percent of time that he offers something razor sharp. Smart, and the others hardly even notice. They treat him like comic relief most of the time, and he lets them. Maybe he doesn’t know his own worth, but Chris sees it.

He isn’t the only one who sees it.

In the summer, something changes.

There are dark circles under Stiles’s eyes, and he wears a guarded expression. He’s a little quieter, a little more subdued, and nobody notices.

Except Chris. Chris notices.

It bothers him enough that one night that he follows Stiles home. Parks a block away and walks to the Stilinksi house. The sheriff isn’t home. The house is in darkness apart from one light on upstairs. Stiles’s bedroom, possibly.

Chris lets himself in–home security is no problem for a hunter like him–and treads quietly up the steps.

He hears the quiet slap of flesh on flesh, and then, just when he’s about to turn around and leave the kid to it, a shuddering breath and a low, amused laugh that does not belong to Stiles.

Chris’s skin crawls.

“No, no, don’t… I don’t want to…” Stiles’s words fade into a groan.

By the time Chris pushes the door gently open, Stiles is gagged. He’s naked too, pushed over the end of his bed with his pale ass in the air, long swathes of skin offered up to the night.

“Chris,” Peter Hale says, smirking. “I wondered how long it’d take you to sniff this out.”

Stiles’s eyes are wide and frantic. He shakes his head and tries to push up off the bed, but Peter holds him there easily with one hand on his lower back and one on his shoulder.

“Close the door, Chris,” Peter says.

For a moment Chris is struck with indecision. He stares at Stiles’s trembling body, at Peter’s fingers digging into pale flesh. Guilt burns through him, leaving just a shell behind. He meets Stiles’s eyes, looking for an answer to a question that he’s too afraid to ask.

Peter huffs, and releases Stiles’s shoulder for just long enough to turn his head away. Stiles makes a sound that could almost be a sob, and Peter’s smile sharpens.

Chris steps inside and closes the door.

 


	2. Nemesis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Who wants some cute kid-fic?  
> I hope it's you.
> 
> Pairing: Stiles/Derek

“Daddy!”

Derek smiles as he sees his son burst out of the preschool door. The knot in his stomach loosens, and all those hours of quiet panic dissolve in an instant. Jamie’s fine, just like Derek promised he would be. Derek’s not sure _he’ll_ ever recover from the trauma of his son’s first day at preschool, but Jamie’s fine.

“Daddy!” Jamie yells excitedly as he races down the path to meet Derek. “Guess what?”

Derek lifts him up. “What?”

Derek’s not sure what he’s expecting. Probably something about how Jamie made a friend today, or got to hold the class hamster, or painted a picture, or didn’t need his spare underwear like he was worried about that morning. It could be a hundred things. A thousand. But he’s certainly not expecting what comes out of his son’s mouth next:

“Daddy, I have a nemesis!”

Um…what? Derek blinks. “What?”

“Ripley is my nemesis,” Jamie tells him, then wrinkles his nose. “Can I have spaghetti-o’s when we get home?”

“I need to sign you out first,” Derek tells him, and carries him back toward the doors.

It’s the work of seconds to sign the book and collect Jamie’s backpack from his cubbyhole. The cubbyholes are set along the wall closest to the front door. Jamie’s cubbyhole has a cartoon kitten above it, and a coat hook with the same smiley kitten on it underneath. Derek sets Jamie down to check he’s got everything in his backpack, which is when he becomes aware of the little girl standing next to him at the turtle cubby hole, glaring.

Oh Jesus, it’s a hell of a glare. The little girl is pale and dark-haired, and fierce as fuck. Derek is half afraid he’s fallen into a Japanese horror movie, and that she is going to steal his soul.

“Daddy," Jamie says. “This is Ripley.”

“Ah,” Derek says, resisting the urge to shield his son from the pure unadulterated evil of the monstrous child. “Hello, Ripley. I’m Derek, Jamie’s dad.”

The little girl looks him up and down and then turns her attention back to Jamie. She narrows her eyes at him, and Derek is kind of surprised they don’t glow. Then she glares again. “I will destroy you!”

_What?_

_What!_

And then suddenly there’s a flurry of limbs as a man swoops in like a scrawny, unco-ordinated seagull, and Evil Ripley is being hoisted up onto the guy’s hip.

“Oh, hey,” the guy says. He is an explosion of scruffy hair, elbows and flannel. “No, sweetheart, we do not swear vengeance on the other kids, okay?” He looks worriedly at Derek. “Um, we have been watching a _lot_ of superhero movies lately.”

Derek isn’t sure how to respond to that.

Luckily, he doesn’t have to.

“Aw, crap,” the guy mutters suddenly, his gaze fixing on something over Derek’s shoulder. “It’s the single moms!”

Derek watches in amusement as a trio of women approach the guy.

“Good afternoon, Deputy Stilinksi,” one of them purrs. Yeah, definitely a purr. The sort of self-satisfied sound a particularly vicious jungle cat might make before tearing its prey apart.

“Oh, hi, Manda,” the guy says. It sounds like he’s trying for a casual tone. Trying and missing. “Nice to see you again.”

Somehow the three of them box him in against the cubby holes.

“No,” he says in response to something one of them says, “I was just talking to um, this other dad here. Sorry, dude, but I didn’t get your name?”

The three women turn on Derek.

Ah. So that’s how Deputy Stilinksi is playing it. Throwing Derek to the wolves so he can get away. Sneaky little shit.

“Derek,” he says. “Derek Hale. Have you got your stuff, Jamie?”

The three women coo over Jamie. And, sure, Derek is the first to admit that his son is adorable, but cheek pinching? Really? Who does that?

“Okay, bye!” Deputy Stilinski says, and then he’s off like a flash.

Evil Ripley glares at Derek and Jamie over her dad’s shoulder. “This isn’t over!”

Later, when Derek has finally extracted himself from the women and is buckling Jamie into his car seat, Jamie chews his thumb thoughtfully, and then smiles. “I like Ripley!”

Derek sighs.

 

***

 

For the rest of the week Derek tries in vain to avoid the moms. They’ve somehow managed to find out that he has no significant other in his life, and they’re all very obviously jockeying for the position. And they are impossible to shut down. Derek knows. He’s tried. Short of yelling at them all to fuck off—and he’s not _quite_ there—he doesn’t know what to do.

And Jamie, meanwhile, still has his nemesis.

Luckily, he doesn’t know what a nemesis is and seems to think it’s another word for friend.

Derek arrives one afternoon to find Jamie chatting happily to a glaring Ripley.

“…and my daddy says that I can watch any cartoons I want!”

What? Derek has no recollection of this conversation.

Ripley continues to glare at Jamie.

Jamie beams at her as he shoves his sleepy towel into his backpack. “You should come to my house and play.”

No. No no no. Then she’ll know where they _live_.

“Daddy!” Jamie exclaims when he spots Derek. “Daddy, let me show you the picture I painted! It’s wet so I can’t take it home until tomorrow.”

A quick detour to the wall where the drying pictures are pinned up turns into a lengthy guided tour, with Jamie telling Derek not only about his own picture, but everyone else’s as well. When Derek finally extricates them, the classroom is empty, apart from Ms Kira the teacher, and Ripley.

“Sorry,” Derek says.

Kira shakes her head slightly. “It’s okay. We’re still waiting for Ripley’s dad.”

Ripley is standing by the cubbyholes, her backpack on and her hands clenched around the straps. She’s staring fixedly at the door.

When the man in the deputy’s uniform arrives, it’s not Deputy Stilinksi.

“Where’s Daddy?” Ripley demands, her brow furrowing.

“Hey, Ripley,” the deputy says. “Your dad’s running late, okay? He sent me to pick you up.”

“Where’s Grandpa?”

“Grandpa’s with your dad.” The deputy crosses to Kira, and Derek catches part of a low conversation. Injured. Hospital. Stable.

Shit.

“Daddy, can Ripley come and play at our house?” Jamie asks.

“Not today, Jamie,” Derek says, watching as the deputy takes the hand of the solemn little girl. “Maybe another time.”

Shit.

 

***

 

Beacon Hills is a small town, so Deputy Stilinski makes the front page of the local newspaper for having his cruiser rammed off the road during a pursuit. The photograph they run with the article is a few years old, probably. It shows a smiling Stiles Stilinski—Stiles? Really?—in the company of an older man, Sheriff John Stilinksi. Apparently law and order is the family business.

When Jamie sees Ripley’s daddy in the newspaper, he demands to know why. Which is how Derek finds himself turning up to preschool the following Monday morning with a plate of cookies that he and Jamie made the night before.

Embarrassingly, he’s not the only parent bearing gifts. The trio of single moms have outdone themselves.

“Ripley!” Jamie screams as soon as Ripley and her dad arrive. “I made you cookies, Ripley!”

Deputy Stilinski—Stiles—looks a little worse for wear. He’s got a cast on his left arm and two black eyes, and he’s moving like an old man with plastic joints. Derek has to fight the urge to get in there and shove the single moms away, just to give the guy some fucking breathing room.

He turns his attention to Ripley and Jamie instead.

“They’re chocolate, _and_ they have chocolate chips!” Jamie tells her proudly.

Ripley’s glare seems a little less intense today. Maybe she’s finally starting to thaw.

Jamie throws his arms around her in a hug, and she glowers, but she doesn’t punch him. That seems like a positive sign.

“You’re my best nemesister!” Jamie tells her when he releases her.

She gives him the side eye.

“I don’t think your son knows what nemesis means,” Stiles says in Derek’s ear, and Derek almost jumps out of his skin.

He flushes. “Oh, hi. Um, no. He has no idea. How are you feeling?”

“Like my car rolled three times and then hit a tree,” Stiles says, grinning.

“Jesus,” Derek mutters, raising his eyebrows.

“Oh, cookies!” Stiles exclaims. “Hold that plate up for me, Jamie. I’m not so great with bending today.”

What little goodwill Jamie bought with the cookies is gone by the time he and Ripley are putting their gear in their cubbyholes.

“I will hunt you down until the end of my days!” Ripley announces.

Jamie looks at her, then looks at his cubbyhole, then back to her. “Do you want to swap?”

Ripley gasps.

Jamie points to her cubbyhole. “I like turtles. You can have the kitty if you want.”

Ripley’s smile is as brilliant as her dad’s. It’s as brilliant as sunshine. Derek is momentarily dazzled, the change is so abrupt.

“Oh my god,” Stiles says through a mouthful of cookie. “ _That’s_ what this was about? Ripley, sweetheart, you have to use your words. Your words, not your threats!”

Derek finds himself smiling.

“So, these cookies,” Stiles says. “How can I get some more?”

Derek looks him up and down, and then hopes to hell he’s not reading this wrong. “You can come to dinner with me when you’re feeling better.”

Stiles’s smile grows. “Deal. You’d better give me your number.” He fishes his phone out of his pocket and hands it to Derek. Then raises his voice. “Just put it in there, and I’ll call you later so we can sort out a time for our _first date_.”

Derek looks at him strangely.

Stiles wiggles his eyebrows and glances over toward the door.

Oh right.

The single moms.

Every one of them, shot down just like that, in one fell swoop. Derek tries his hardest not to laugh at their collective shock.

He has a feeling that preschool drop-offs are going to be a lot less awkward from now on, for both of them.


	3. Scared

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pairing: Stiles/Derek

Based on this pic:

 

 

You’re a hunter.

You’ve trained for this moment, and now you’ve got the alpha on the back foot. Fuck, yeah. This rabid dog is going down. Not that it’s been easy. No. You’ve pumped at least two wolfsbane bullets into the asshole, and he _still_ came at you. Now he’s standing in the middle of the road, the hunting knife your uncle gave you sticking out from between his ribs. He’s hunched over, but he’s not down yet, and he’s still breathing.

An alpha. You’ve never hunted an alpha before. Taken down plenty of omegas, and a few betas, and maybe you got cocky, because you never understood—right until this moment—how much stronger an alpha really was.

But you’ve got him now. You’ve got him.

You reach for the Glock in your thigh holster. Not your first weapon of choice, but it’s all you’ve got left, and it’s loaded and ready to go.

Your right arm is killing you where the alpha shredded it with his claws, so you draw with your left. Hold it up and level it. Aim it right at the alpha’s ridged face.

And suddenly there’s a screaming kid tearing out of the tree line, all skinny limbs and tears. A red flannel shirt flaps behind him as he runs. For a moment you’re confused, because this guy isn’t a werewolf. Isn’t anything but what he appears, probably, just some dumb as shit kid who’s somehow got himself tangled up on the wrong side of the supernatural.

Mates, the weres call them. Pack bitches, your family does. Rolling over and panting for it, like they’re the dogs.

The boy throws himself into the alpha’s arms, buries his face in his neck. He’s shaking and crying, and begging you not to shoot. If you were a werewolf, you bet you could smell the fear curling off him, curdling his scent and souring the night air.

Pathetic little pack bitch. Nothing but a whore.

But you live by a code. _The_ Code. Sure, you’ve twisted it up a little as the years have gone by and the difference between a wolf who has killed an innocent and a wolf who inevitably _will_ is purely academic. But the kid is human. He probably deserves to get put down like the dog he spreads his legs for, but you’re better than that.

“Fucking move!” you yell at the kid.

The kid twists a little, looks out at you from under the alpha’s chin. His face is almost ghostly pale in the bright moonlight. “No, please! No! Please, don’t hurt him!”

The alpha is still wolfed out, growling. He’s breathing heavily though, and there are tremors in the clawed hands he’s holding out to his sides.

“Fucking move, you little bitch, or I’ll shoot you too!” you yell.

The kid’s tears shine like silver. He’s shaking and useless. Turns his face into the alpha’s throat again. “Oh, god. Please. Oh, please.”

Pathetic whimpering little piece of shit.

There’s a roar of an engine behind you. You glance back quickly. It’s a black SUV. You saw it earlier today when you got into town. It belongs to the local hunter. He wasn’t real happy about you being here, but fuck him. If he’d done his job right, you wouldn’t have to.

“Got a fucking pack whore here,” you tell the guy as he gets out of his SUV and stands beside you on the road.

“That right?” the guy says.

“Yeah,” you tell him. “Dumb little slut doesn’t know he shouldn’t get between a hunter and his prey.”

“Actually,” the hunter says, “that’s wolf behavior 101.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” you ask him.

“You think he’s standing over there shitting himself,” the hunter says, something like a wry smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “He’s not. He’s protecting his alpha’s throat and belly.”

“What the fuck does that even mean?” you demand.

“Means he bought me enough time to do this,” the hunter tells you.

You only have a second to process the press of the firearm against your chest before he fires.

You hit the road.

Your blood is pooling out from underneath you, like a dark, shining lake. The hunter steps through it, the treads of his boots leaving bloody footprints up the road.

You watch as the kid uncurls himself from the alpha. He’s not shaking now. He’s not crying. He’s calm. Cold maybe. He looks at you once, and his eyes glitter in the moonlight. He’s still holding your fading gaze when he spits on the ground close to where you’re lying.

Then he and the hunter help the alpha away.

After that, nothing.

 

 


	4. Guns and Hoses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles is a cop. Derek is a firefighter.  
> They hate each other.
> 
> Pairing: Stiles/Derek

It’s very likely that Derek Hale is going to kill Stiles Stilinski. Because Stilinski is a total fucking jerk.

Derek first becomes aware of him at a little past 3 a.m. one night, when they get the call for a fire out in the abandoned sawmill. The cops are already there, because…

Because that’s their fucking job, okay? Not that it stops Stilinski being a dick about it.

“Oh,” Stilinski says, peeling himself off the hood of his patrol car. “It’s okay, you guys! Somebody finally woke the firefighters up!”

Derek wants to plant a fist in his face.

“What do you guys do every shift, anyway?” Stilinski asks. “Eat until you’re sleepy and then wake up when you’re hungry?”

“Asshole,” Derek mutters as he jogs toward the sawmill.

He expects Erica to agree with him, but she just laughs. “Jealousy’s a curse, Stilinski!”

Stilinski gives her the finger, and the glow of the flames from the sawmill throws the dark shadows under his eyes into sharp relief.

Derek spares a fleeting moment to hope he’s so tired he crashes his patrol car into a tree on the way back to town, then he shoves the irritating deputy out of his mind and gets to work.

 

***

 

“You do realize,” Jordan Parrish says a few days later while he and Stiles are eating lunch in the diner, “that we’re supposed to be on the same side?”

Stiles grumbles something indistinct into his coffee, and turns his glare on the parking lot, where the big red shiny fire engine is pulling in. Way to make an entrance, douchebags.

Stiles’s hatred of firefighters is legendary in the Beacon Hills Sheriff’s Department. And, Stiles maintains, it has nothing to do with the fact that the woman from that kids’ charity had looked at him like he’d grown a second head, and said, _“Oh,_ no _, Deputy Stilinski. People don’t want calendars with cops on them. We’ll ask the fire department.”_

Erica Reyes was right, of course. It’s pure fucking jealousy.

And he’s just so freaking _tired_ , and you know what those firefighters get? Twenty-four hours on, and forty-eight hours off. Jesus. Stiles can’t even imagine what that’s like. To have a schedule that’s not completely all over the fucking place, from morning shifts, to afternoon shifts, to night shifts, and back on the goddamn rollercoaster before his body clock’s had time to adjust.

 _Firefighters work nights as well, Stiles,_ the voice in his head tells him. It sounds suspiciously like his best friend Scott. Scott always gets to play the voice of reason in Stiles’s mental debates.

“Firefighters _sleep_ nights,” Stiles mutters into his lukewarm coffee. “Do you know how many fires we get in Beacon Hills? Not fucking many.”

“Talking to yourself again, Stiles?” Parrish asks him.

Stiles looks up as the firefighters walk inside the diner. “Yep. Only way to get an intelligent conversation in this company.”

He tries to ignore the firefighters, but Jordan has to be all polite and sociable. He’s even friendly with Derek Hale, the absolute worst of all the firefighters. With his growly face and his thousand-watt glare, and his cheekbones that…

No, wait? What? Stiles was listing reasons why he’s an asshole, not a fucking walking wet dream.

He feels much less confused when Hale walks past their booth and drops a donut on Stiles’s plate with a shit-eating grin.

Stiles could just shoot him right now, right? He could.

“Fuck you,” he mutters instead.

The donut is pink. It has sprinkles.

It is mocking him.

And so is Derek fucking Hale.

Fuck him sideways.

That donut thing is total fucking cliché. You know why cops get fat? Fucking epinephrine, that’s why. Because cops have the whole hyper vigilance thing going on. Firefighters don’t. Their stress levels are totally different. They’re not so elevated all of the time that it changes their fucking body chemistry. And that is an absolute fact. There have been studies.

Studies that tell Stiles he’s going to die twenty years younger than his peers, and all because of his fucking _job_. Which he loves, by the way, but still. Twenty years. That seems . . . that seems like a lot to give away for generally shitty pay and the privilege of dealing with assholes day in, day out.

Assholes like Derek Hale, who is currently laughing at him from the other side of the diner.

“I’m gonna kill that motherfucker,” Stiles mutters.

“Are you gonna eat that?” Parrish asks, ignoring Stiles's rage and eyeing the donut hopefully. “Because I will if you don’t.”

 

***

 

Generally speaking, the relationship between the Beacon Hills Sheriff’s Department and the Fire Department is a good one. Personally speaking, Derek hates Deputy Stilinski with the fire of a thousand burning suns. Particularly when they turn up at a dumpster fire behind Burger King one night and Stilinski is already there, already bitching about their response time, and something about getting all the credit just for knowing where to point a hose.

“We don’t just fight fires,” Derek snipes. “You know what EMS stands for, right?”

“Yeah,” Stilinski agrees. “Earning money sleeping.”

Derek resists the urge to punch him in his smug fucking face.

“Listen, Hale,” Stilinski continues. “All I know is there are two types of people who make money in bed, and I arrest the first type.”

Boyd laughs.

The fucking traitor.

Later, back at the station, Derek lies awake in his cot and seethes quietly.

“I can hear you hating on Stilinski from all the way over here,” Isaac mutters. “Can’t you just fuck him and get him out of your system?”

Erica barks out a laugh.

“Shut up,” Derek snarls.

He doesn’t want to fuck Stilinski.

He wants to punch him in the face.

End of story.

  

***

 

For his twenty-third birthday, Stiles goes to The Jungle. Of course he does. Where the hell else is he going to get laid on short notice in Beacon Hills? Scott plays his wingman for a few hours, but he has to be home by midnight, and, really, he’s the straightest wingman in the world.

“Dude,” he announces, “let’s hit some dick tonight!”

Stiles resists the urge to facepalm. “It’s very nice that you’re being inclusive, Scotty, but that’s not really how we talk, okay?”

“Okay!” Scott bounces off toward the dance floor.

So much for his wingman.

Still, it’s cute. His straight BFF getting hit on by all the boys, and Scott's so friendly and happy to meet new people that he doesn’t even realize they’re pretty much only interested in fucking. He’ll figure it out eventually. Probably when he gets his wallet out and shows his picture of Allison, her hands resting on her very pregnant belly, and discovers not everyone else is as enthusiastic to hear how in love he is with his perfect, pregnant wife.

Stiles makes a friend of the barman, and makes sure the drinks keep coming.

Scott heads off just before midnight.

Stiles dances some, and grinds up against a few different guys. He’s had enough to drink that he parted ways with his inhibitions a while back, thanks. The music is pumping, he’s surrounded by hot guys, and he’s going to get laid. Happy birthday, Stiles.

Which is right when he smells smoke.

Okay, so the smoke machine has been on all night, but this isn’t the strange, cold taste of artificial smoke. This is the real thing. Stiles is just looking around worriedly when the music shuts off, the lights come on, and the smoke alarms start to beep.

A few minutes later, standing in the cold street with the ladies and sharing a cigarette with Valencia, Stiles groans as the fire engines turn up.

“What’s the matter, baby?” Miss Andrie asks. “Who doesn’t like a firefighter, hmm?”

Stiles doesn’t.

He really, really doesn’t.

“Oh, would you look at that hunk of burning hotness,” Valencia sighs as Boyd heads into the club. “Show me your hose, honey!”

Boyd’s mouth twitches in a grin.

“Oh, sweet baby Jesus!” Miss Andrie exclaims as Derek Hale heads for the entrance. “I want to climb that one like a tree!”

Miss Andrie is at least seven feet tall in her heels, and towers over Hale, but Stiles gets it. Objectively, Hale is hot. A part of Stiles wants to forget he knows he’s such an asshole. The other part wants to hate fuck the attitude right out of him.

That’s probably the tequila talking.

Hale looks over, and pulls up short. “Stilinski?”

“Hale,” Stiles says, folding his arms over his chest in an attempt to look somewhat intimidating. It’s pretty impossible though, surrounded by this much glitter and taffeta.

Hale’s gaze shifts from Stiles to the posse of drag queens and back again. “Having a good night?”

“Right up until you turned up,” Stiles tells him.

Hale glowers, and walks inside the club.

There’s a moment of stunned silence, and then the ladies turn on him like a pack of raptors.

“What?” Stiles exclaims, flinching away. “ _What?_ ”

“Have you got _eyes_?” Valencia exclaims. If she had pearls she’d be clutching them. “Why would you shoot _that_ down?”

“Oh, please! He hates me!” Stiles insists. “And he’s an asshole!”

Valencia rolls her eyes. “Sounds like a match made in heaven to me.”

Stiles grumbles at her, bums another cigarette off Miss Andrie, and calls for an Uber. It’s not until he’s halfway home, still stewing at Hale’s dickishness and the ladies’ unfair treatment of him, that he remembers he didn’t even get lucky tonight.

Happy fucking birthday.

  

***

 

“Oh,” Stilinski says. “Here they are at last. Not keeping you up, am I, Hale?”

Shit.

Shit shit shit. That is a lot of blood. 

“Hey, and you brought the rest of the crew too,” Stilinski says. His face is white. The shadows under his eyes are blue. “You guys gotta travel in a pack, right? Incapable of inde-independent thought?”

Derek puts pressure on his wound, and tries not to think about just how much blood he’s already lost. “Sure. You know us. Can’t even buy a loaf of bread without backup.”

“B-backup,” Stilinski says.

“Looks like you could have done with some of that yourself tonight.”

Stilinski blinks up at him, like he’s suddenly not registering the words. His pulse is tachy, and his pupils are dilated. He’s cold. He’s going into shock.

At the side of the road, the lights on his patrol car are still flashing, bathing the world in red and blue. The windshield of the car is shattered. There’s a bullet hole in the hood. One in Stilinski too.

There’s nobody else in sight. It was a traffic stop, Derek figures, and the guy got the drop on Stilinski. He knows from the frantic radio chatter that there are roadblocks being put in place, reinforcements being called out. Every cop who isn’t here is on the hunt for whoever did this.

Stilinski curls a bloody hand around Derek’s wrist. He opens his mouth and closes it again. He looks a lot younger suddenly.

“Hold on,” Derek tells him.

Around him, Boyd and Isaac are working quickly. Isaac reaches over and presses an oxygen mask to Stilinski’s face.

“We’ll get you to the hospital real soon,” Derek says. He keeps pressure on Stilinski’s wound as Boyd and Isaac lift him onto a stretcher.

Stilinski’s gaze drifts past him.

“Stiles!” It’s the sheriff. He’s wearing his jacket thrown over his pajamas. “Kiddo?”

The deputy unlatches his fingers from Derek’s wrist and reaches for his father’s hand.

“You can ride in the back, Sheriff,” Derek says as they carry Stilinski toward the ambulance. He’s guessing it’d take a braver man than him to tell the sheriff otherwise.

Boyd drives, while Isaac and Derek work on trying to keep Stilinski stable. His blood pressure is too low. He’s in danger of going into cardiac arrest. Isaac holds the oxygen mask on him, his gloves leaving bloody smears on the plastic. Derek pumps fluids into the canula he shoves in one wrist.

“You hold on, Stiles,” the sheriff says fiercely. “Don’t you leave me, kid.”

Stilinski's eyes are wide but unfocussed. He mumbles something under the mask.

Derek can’t be sure, but he thinks he's asking for his mom.

They race toward the hospital.

 

***

 

Stiles spends a week in hospital, three more at his dad’s place, and then four months on desk duty. When it finally comes time to get out and patrol again, he swallows down his fear and checks the tasking sheet.

“Seriously?” he asks. “Dad, seriously?”

“Problem?” his dad asks, reaching for his hat. “Let’s start with a foot patrol on Main and see where we go from there.”

Stiles sighs dramatically.

“I’m just saying,” he says later, picking up his grievance from where he left it before his dad bought him a coffee, “this is _ridiculous_. I’m a grown up! I have a _firearm_. I don’t need my daddy to hold my hand on patrol!”

“You wanna keep bitching?” his dad asks him. “Or do you want me to put you on report?”

Stiles knows when he’s beaten. It doesn’t stop him whining like a little kid though. “Dad!”

They stop in at the bakery, and Stiles’s dad picks up an order for two dozen cupcakes.

“Is it someone’s birthday?” Stiles asks. Shit. Whose birthday has he forgotten?

“Nope,” John says, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Doesn’t mean you don’t have to remember how to play nice with others though.”

Stiles narrows his eyes at his dad. “What others?”

John hands his credit card to the woman behind the counter, and doesn’t answer.

“Dad? What others?”

 

***

 

“Yo, Derek!” Boyd yells out. “Cops are here!”

“What?” Derek sets down the dumbbells and wipes his sweaty face on a towel before he heads outside.

There’s a patrol car pulled up out the front of the station, and Sheriff Stilinski is handing out cupcakes to Derek’s crew. Stiles is standing by his side, looking for all the world like he’d rather be anywhere else right about now.

“It’s his first day back on full duties,” Sheriff Stilinski tells Erica. “Figured that was worth celebrating.”

Derek wishes he could smirk at the deputy’s obvious discomfort, but he can’t. Stilinski junior might be a dick, but it’s impossible to look at him and not see how he was that night: scared. So fucking scared, and so close to dying.

“I can’t decide which one I want,” Isaac says when the sheriff shoves the box toward him.

“Take two,” the sheriff says. “Hell, take three.”

Derek lets himself get drawn into the small crowd. He selects a cupcake, and turns around to find himself staring into Deputy Stilinski’s face. There’s a look there he’s not used to seeing. Stilinski looks almost vulnerable.

“So, um,” Stilinski says, clearing his throat. “I don’t remember a lot about what happened, but thanks.”

“Just doing my job,” Derek says, and hates the way it sounds.

“Right,” Stilinski says, the word bitten off short. “Of course.”

Derek could kick himself as Stilinski steps away from the group and heads back toward the patrol car. He snaffles another cupcake, and, sighing, follows him. It’s almost gratifying to see the surprise on Stilinski’s face when he shoves the cupcake toward him.

“You really think I hate you?” he asks.

Stilinski takes the cupcake hesitantly. “Um, maybe? You’re kind of a dick to me.”

“Oh,” Derek says. “ _I’m_ a dick to _you_?”

Stilinski narrows his eyes. “Um, _yes_.”

“And you’ve never been a dick to me?”

“Maybe,” Stilinski admits grudgingly, and groans. “Okay, yes, and I’m sorry, and it won’t happen again, and thank you for not letting me die.”

His eyes are the color of whisky. Why has Derek never noticed that before?

“Apology accepted,” he grinds out.

“Oh my god!” someone yells from nearby. It’s Erica. Of course it’s Erica. “Just fuck already!”

_What?_

Derek gapes. So does Deputy Stilinski. The sheriff shakes his head ruefully.

Deputy Stilinski points a finger at Erica. “Shut up, Reyes! That is not— That is—”

“That is not what’s happening here,” Derek growls.

“Right!” Stilinski agrees. “That is _not_ what’s happening here.”

Derek eats his cupcake, his face burning.

 

***

 

Sometimes, Stiles is pretty sure the universe is just fucking with him. Like the guy he hated? Like, lay awake at night just thinking about how much he hated? Well, when a bunch of drag queens, your own father, Erica Reyes, Parrish, and even Scotty all start telling you that maybe you’ve got your head up your ass when it comes to that guy… maybe you’re supposed to listen.

Stiles is very unused to listening.

He’s very unused to all of this.

He’s unused to dating, and kissing, and feeling like a teenager again just because of the way that guy sometimes smiles at him.

He’s still a dick though. Derek. Derek is still a dick.

He’s just…

Well, somehow he's become a dick who matters.

Six months later when someone lights a fire in the dumpster behind Burger King again, Stiles waits a safe distance away and grins as the fire engine pulls up.

“Guess someone woke you up from your beauty sleep, huh?” he yells across the parking lot. “About time!”

It’s a dumpster fire, seriously. Derek lets his crew handle it while he comes and leans on Stiles’s patrol car with him.

“Did you set this fire just to get us out of bed?” he asks.

Stiles jabs him in the ribs. “Fuck you, Derek. Everyone knows it’s firefighters who do that shit, just for the chance to play hero.”

“Uh huh,” Derek agrees. “Look at them. So heroic.”

Boyd and Erica are digging around in the dumpster to make sure the fire’s out.

Stiles snorts. “Hey, you heading back to the station after this?”

Derek nods.

“You need someone to come and tuck you into bed?” Stiles waggles his eyebrows. “Maybe read you a fairytale?”

“Nah.” Derek grins. He straightens up and stretches. “But I kinda want to suck you off in a supply closet.”

Stiles looks at his watch. “My break’s in an hour.”

“I’ll try not to fall asleep in the meantime,” Derek tells him, heading back toward the truck.

“Asshole!” Stiles yells after him.

Derek laughs, and flips him the bird.

It’s not until the firefighters have gone that Stiles sees the paper bag Derek tossed in the open window of his patrol car. He inspects it carefully.

It’s full of donuts.

Fucking _asshole_.

He takes the donuts back to the station, shares them around, then checks his watch. He’s got a hot date with a firefighter and a supply closet. He’s also got payback to consider.

Yeah. He’s definitely taking his handcuffs.


	5. Breakable

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was written for the [LOL Scerek Anon](http://lolscerekanon.tumblr.com)  
> Long story short: it's a pushback against the person who thinks that sending death threats and rape threats to anyone who writes a pairing they don't approve of is an okay thing to do. So, naturally, here's a pairing they won't approve of! 
> 
> The anon troll is a huge fan of Sterek - as am I, but that's where the similarity ends. So I decided to write a story where the Sterek is a toxic, violent relationship. It's maybe a little OOC for Derek, but then maybe it's not. I don't think it's that impossible to imagine a world where Derek is completely fucked up because of his past, and takes it out on those around him.
> 
> Pairing: Stiles/Derek  
> Stiles/Malia/Theo

It’s embarrassment that keeps Stiles from leaving. He used to be smart and loud and sarcastic, but right, too, always right. But he was so, so wrong about Derek. If he leaves, everyone will know how wrong he was. He doesn’t want that. He’s thought about this a lot, and, on balance, he’d rather try and make things work with Derek than have his friends find out just how bad it is.

Because once upon a time, back when Stiles was sixteen, Derek Hale was hot and mysterious with a tragically dark past, and he looked at Stiles, okay? He _saw_ Stiles. Saw past the flailing and the babble and the bad fashion sense, and actually wanted him. And it wasn’t just the ego boost or anything. Stiles wasn’t that shallow, he doesn’t think. But he was a kid struggling with trying to figure himself out, trying to not feel like a total failure at everything, and Derek Hale _wanted_ him.

They had sex for the first time a month before Stiles’s seventeenth birthday, and it hadn’t hurt exactly, but it had been kind of awkward and uncomfortable, and Stiles had been glad he could hide his face in the covers until it was over. It got a little better after that, but sex wasn’t Stiles’s favourite thing. It still isn’t, three years later. But he loves Derek, right? Or loved him.

He doesn’t know anymore.

And now he’s got three years of solid lies behind him. Of laughing off a bruise on his arm from where Derek gripped him too tightly, waggling his eyebrows and reminding Scott that sometimes they play rough. And Scott will make a face. “Too much information, dude!” And they’ll both laugh it off.

He’s got three years of pretending to be too busy to go out and catch up with Lydia and Jackson. Of pretending he’s still in the honeymoon phase where he can’t bear be without Derek for a moment, because he’s a sap, and because Derek is his universe.

Derek is, but not in the way everyone thinks.

Stiles should leave.

Of course he should.

But maybe he’s as pathetic as Derek tells him he is, because he doesn’t.

Because this is manageable, okay? He’s _managing_. And as long as he keep managing it, then nobody needs to know.

 

***

 

“Oh, fuck my life!” Stiles groans and drops his head back against the headrest as the blue and red lights flicker behind him and the siren whoops. He pulls over onto the side of the road and hopes to hell he wasn’t going too fast. Most of the cops in Beacon Hills know his jeep and overlook his tendency to drive like he’s on Toad’s Turnpike. He gets a lot of latitude, he knows. More than anyone else would.

But the cop who gets out of the cruiser isn’t one Stiles recognises. She’s pretty and dark-haired, with the no-bullshit expression that most cops foster for traffic stops.

“License and registration,” she says.

“Hey.” Stiles fumbles for his license, and hauls his registration papers out of the glove compartment.

She looks at them carefully. “Do you know how fast you were going, sir?”

“Ah, no,” Stiles says.

“Thirty-eight,” she tells him. “In a residential zone.”

“Oh, okay,” Stiles says, wincing as she reaches for her ticket book.

He remembers he stole one of his dad’s when he was eight or nine. Stood in the playground at school writing out tickets for a whole lunch break, thinking this was a great way to get rich. Until his dad found out.

The cop hands him back his license, his registration, and his bonus speeding ticket. “Have a good day, sir.”

“Yeah,” Stiles says woodenly. “You too.”

 

***

 

“Sixty dollars?” Derek demands later.

Middle of the night, Stiles thinks. They’re doing this in the middle of the night. Derek’s woken him up for this. For more of this.

He shouldn’t have tried to hide the ticket.

Thing is, Stiles always knew that Derek had a temper. He’s got more fucking issues than anyone deserves. Losing his family like that. But when they first got together, he’d never lost his shit with Stiles. Never. And Stiles had thought it would stay like that.

It hadn’t.

“Sixty dollars?” Derek demands again, and Stiles knows it’s not the money, it’s the principal. But if it weren’t the principal, it’d be something else. It’s always something else.

“I’m sorry, Der,” he whispers. “I’m sorry.”

Sorry is never good enough.

 

***

 

Stiles wears long-sleeved shirts even in the summer.

He’s been doing it for so long that nobody asks him why.

 

***

 

Stiles works from home, writing closed captions for television shows. It pays okay. He watches a lot of shit television shows though. Every day at eleven he goes and buys a coffee from the place downtown. It’s his routine. It gets him out of the house.

It’s a week after his speeding ticket and he’s waiting for the barista to call his name, when the cop walks in.

“Oh,” she says when she sees him, and something like recognition crosses her face. Followed quickly by pity. Stiles hates that look. “Have you paid yet?”

“Um, yeah,” Stiles says.

“So I kind of got my ass handed to me when the guys at the station found out I’d given you a ticket,” she tells him.

“It’s okay. I don’t want preferential treatment.”

She looks him up and down, and smiles tentatively. “Stilinski’s not exactly a common name around here.”

“Not exactly,” Stiles agrees. He’s the only one left now.

“Let me at least buy you a cookie,” the cop says.

Yeah. Buy him a cookie like that will make up for it. Like that tiny kindness will make a difference for that day some guy walked into the Beacon Hills Sheriff’s Department with an assault rifle and a grudge, and John Stilinski tried to talk him down.

Stiles had been a week shy of eighteen.

Everyone had said his dad was a hero. There had been a woman and her kids at the front counter reporting something. Lost property or some bullshit. And the sheriff had got the guy’s attention on him instead. Because that’s the kind of man he was.

That night Stiles had turned up on Derek’s doorstep, crying, screaming. He’d never left.

God, but he should have.

“No, thanks,” he says, his voice hitching a little. The barista calls his name and he steps forward to collect his coffee.

The cop puts her hand on his forearm, fingers tightening slightly over an ugly black bruise hidden under his sleeve.

He flinches.

Her expression falters. “Maybe next time?”

“Sure,” he says. “Maybe.”

“My name’s Malia,” she tells him. “Malia Tate.”

“Stiles,” he rasps out.

He gets his coffee and leaves.

 

***

 

On Thursday Scott calls and Stiles lets it go to voicemail.

He’ll text back tomorrow. Say he was napping.

 

***

 

Stiles loves going out with Derek, and he hates it too. Being out in public is fraught with danger. Like Stiles might say the wrong thing, or look at Derek wrong, or order something he wasn’t supposed to. And he won’t know it at the time, but Derek will let those tiny indiscretions build into mountains, and later he’ll make sure Stiles pays for it.

But it’s so rare they leave the house. It’s so good.

“Do I look okay?” he asks Derek in the car on their way to the restaurant.

“You look fine, Stiles,” Derek says, with a hint of an exasperated sigh.

In this moment he reminds Stiles of how he was years ago, when he smiled gently while Stiles needled him. In this moment it’s easy to remember how they fell in love, and impossible to process how it all went wrong.

The restaurant is nice. The tablecloths are linen, and the menu is in cursive. Frankly, that’s as fancy as Stiles gets.

“Will you order for me?” Stiles asks hopefully. Less chance of fucking it up.

Derek’s smile is indulgent. Happy.

His good moods are as thin as the glass ornaments Stiles remembers putting on the Christmas tree when he was a kid. So brittle and fragile. Breakable.

It’s not until he’s halfway through the chicken Caesar salad that Derek ordered him that Stiles becomes aware of laughter on the other side of the restaurant. It’s bright, so bright that he doesn’t care it’s loud. He glances over, and sees the cop seated there. Malia. She’s wearing a green dress, and her head’s thrown back as she laughs. The man sitting across from her is smiling at her broadly, like she’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. She probably is, Stiles thinks.

But then, so is the guy.

He tears his gaze away, but not before Derek catches him looking.

“This is good,” he says, jabbing his fork in his salad. “Thank you for bringing me here.”

He thinks, in the back of his mind, that he can hear glass breaking.

Derek takes his wallet out and pulls a few bills out.

They’re done, apparently. Stiles hasn’t even finished, but they’re done. He sets his fork down and twists his napkin on his lap.

“Oh, hi!”

He looks up again to find Malia standing at the table.

“Hi, Stiles.” She’s holding the hand of the guy, and tugs him forward. “This is my boyfriend, Theo. Theo, this is Stiles Stilinski.”

Stiles reaches up to shake his hand. “M-my boyfriend. Derek.”

“Nice to meet you,” Theo says, and shakes Derek’s hand as well.

You too,” Derek says. “We were just leaving.”

 

***

 

Malia is at the coffee shop the next day, right on eleven.

“Bought you a cookie,” she says.

“Thanks.” He takes the packet. Shoves it in his pocket.

“Are you okay, Stiles?”

There’s a note of concern in her voice that Stiles detests. He forces a grin. “Peachy.”

“You look a little…” She makes a vague gesture.

“Thanks for the cookie,” he says, and walks out.

 

***

 

Because he’s pathetic.

Because he’s fucked up.

Because he can never do anything right.

Because he _looked_ at them.

Because he shook Theo’s hand.

There’s a reason for every bruise.

 

***

 

Stiles orders bandages and Neosporin and Tylenol online. One more order and he’ll get free shipping. He’s a loyal customer.

 

***

 

Derek doesn’t _mean_ it.

Stiles shouldn’t make him lose his temper like that.

He doesn’t mean it.

 

***

 

When he was younger, Stiles never shut the fuck up. It drove his dad insane, probably. It drove his friends insane. He’s learned to be quiet now. So there’s that.

 

***

 

The doorbell buzzes, and Stiles jerks awake. Great. He’s missed half the show he’s supposed to be captioning, which means more annoying fucking soap opera for him later. It hurts when he stands up, and not just because he feel asleep in his decidedly un-ergonomic computer chair. He heads for the front door, and opens it.

It’s Malia. She’s in uniform. She thrusts a coffee cup at him.

“You missed our date, Stiles.”

He squints at her. “What?”

“It’s eleven thirty,” she tells him. “You missed our coffee date.”

“I don’t think we have a coffee date, Malia.” He likes the way her name sounds.

“We do,” she says, and looks over his shoulder pointedly.

Stiles steps back and lets her in.

“This is a nice place,” she says. “Very clean.”

Because Derek wouldn’t have it any other way.

“Theo and I look like we live in a trash heap,” she tells him, with no trace of shame. “Where’s your boyfriend?”

“Work,” Stiles says.

“He’s with the Fire Department, right?”

“Right.”

“Fire fighters,” Malia says. “Getting all the glory.”

Stiles’s mouth quirks in a smile at that.

“I guess it’s not an odd choice,” she continues. “Given his history.”

Stiles feels a prickle of fear at that. Has she been looking into them? Except they’re Derek Hale and Stiles Stilinski. The whole town knows their tragic fucking past. Malia might only be new to town, but he bet it didn’t take long for someone to fill her in.

“I guess,” he says. Then, because he figures he should make conversation: “What does Theo do?”

“Park ranger,” Malia says. “It’s why we moved here. He’s got this thing where he’s tagging foxes. Studying migratory patterns, or something. Oh god, if he ever starts talking to you about foxes, just run, because it’s hours of your life you won’t get back.”

Stiles smiles, and he’s not sure if it’s because of the joke, or because of the way she thinks that maybe he and Theo will ever just start talking, like they’re friends. Like that’s a thing that can happen. Stiles doesn’t have friends anymore. Even Scott has mostly given up. A part of Stiles resents him for that, but how can be blame him, really? Stiles _wanted_ him to give up.

“You work from home, right?”

“Yeah.” Stiles sips his coffee. “It’s good. Means I can wear sweatpants and nobody complains.”

“Living the dream!” Malia laughs.

Stiles’s smile is smaller this time.

 

***

 

It becomes their thing. Instead of running into one another at the coffee shop, Malia stops by every day instead. Sometimes she brings cookies as well. Sometimes she brings muffins. Stiles can’t figure out exactly what she’s doing. She’s funny and loud and has no filter. She reminds him of how he used to be. But he’s pretty sure she could make any friend she wanted, so he can’t quite figure out why she’s decided he’s going to be her friend.

But it’s fun. She talks about her and Theo, and the places they’ve travelled, and their plans for the future, and Stiles aches as he listens. He’d wanted those things too, once, with Derek. He’d wanted a future. He’s a little envious of her, he thinks. But mostly it feels good to listen to her talk.

He doesn’t tell Derek.

He really, really should have.

 

***

 

It’s never a good thing when Derek drags Stiles out of bed in the middle of the night.

Literally drags him.

It means he’s had time to stew. Had time to work himself into a rage.

Usually, Stiles shuts a part of himself down when it happens. Just curls up and concentrates on staying conscious until Derek’s worn himself out. Concentrates on twisting the right way to minimise the damage. Taking a fist in the stomach instead of the kidneys. It’s the only control he’s got. Then, when it’s done, he creeps into the bathroom and gets out his bandages and his Tylenol and his Neosporin, and sits on the edge of the bath and patches himself up again.

It’s his routine.

It keeps him sane.

Except this time Derek snaps a rib or something, and Stiles passes out. And even when he come to, lying on the bedroom floor, it hurts too much to move. The pressure in his chest is unbearable.

“Get the fuck up,” Derek snarls at him.

He needs to go to the hospital.

“Der…”

“Get the fuck up!” Derek yells, and then reaches down and hauls him up. Throws him onto the bed where he bounces a few times against the mattress, and then lies still.

No hospitals.

That was one of the first rules.

No hospitals.

Nobody could know.

And Stiles had agreed with that.

 

***

 

He gets a text from Scott in the morning.

_Hey, Stiles! It’s been a while, bro. Up for a movie this weekend?_

He doesn’t text back, but he figures Scott isn’t expecting him to.

 

***

 

The doorbell buzzes, and Stiles opens his eyes and looks at the clock on his phone. 11.30.

He ignores it.

She’ll go away.

 

***

 

“Stiles? Stiles!”

“M’lia?”

Except she’s not talking to him. She’s talking on her phone now. “Send the paramedics, Jordan. I don’t know! I don’t know! But he’s pretty messed up!”

Why didn’t she go away?

How did she even get in?

Stiles sees the busted front door as the paramedics are carrying him out on a stretcher.

Derek’s gonna be pissed.

 

***

 

So.

Everyone knows.

The entire Sheriff’s Department, the Fire Department, and probably the entire fucking town by now. Everyone knows that Stiles Stilinski was a weak little bitch who got beaten up by his boyfriend.

Scott is inconsolable with guilt. So is Lydia. Even Jackson looks horrified.

And pitying. They’re all so fucking pitying, and he hates it. He really hates it. Because he was dumb, because he was weak, and now everybody knows. At least his dad is dead, right?

And as soon as that thought hits him Stiles spirals straight into a full-blown panic attack, because who the fuck even _thinks_ something like that?

A worthless piece of shit, obviously.

 

***

 

It takes months. Stiles is living with Scott now. His and Derek’s house is up for sale. Derek has a slick lawyer and a nice little PTSD defence, so he’s probably not going to go to jail for long. But Malia and Jordan go all old school on his ass, and Stiles knows that they’re gonna run him out of town the moment he tries to come back.

Maybe Stiles should be the one running instead. To somewhere nobody knows him. Somewhere he can pretend he’s not a victim.

“Survivor,” Scott tells him firmly when he mumbles that one night over his fourth beer. “You’re not a victim. You’re a survivor.”

And fuck semantics too. Stiles knows how people look at him, and it’s not with admiration.

Malia still visits everyday. Sometimes Theo comes with her.

And Stiles gets that ache again.

The one where he’s envious of them.

The one where he wants to be like them.

The one where he wants to have exactly what they have.

 

***

 

Malia was right about the fox thing. Theo is totally obsessed. His whole face lights up when he talks about them. In early spring he finds an abandoned fox kit in the preserve, its mother dead in an illegal trap, and brings it, wrapped in towels, to Stiles.

“No,” Stiles says.

“But Malia works shift work,” Theo says. “And I can’t carry it around all day. And Stiles, you live with a vet!”

“Vet student,” Stiles corrects, but takes the fox anyway.

Of course he does.

 

***

 

Six months later and he’s not sure how he got to this.

He’s been avoiding Malia and Theo ever since the fox was released back into the woods, because they both saw him at his worst, and that’s not the person he wants to be. And because he can feel his jealousy twisting into something weird and hateful inside him, and he doesn’t want that for them. They deserve better.

Except here he is inside their messy apartment, and Scott’s already left because he has an early class in the morning, and Stiles hadn’t finished his beer yet, and they offered him the couch.

Except he’s not on the couch.

He doesn’t know how this happened.

He only knows that one second he was watching them kiss, and then Theo caught his eye, and Stiles apologized for being a creeper and said something about calling a taxi, and then Theo leaned over and kissed him too.

“Nothing you don’t want, Stiles,” he whispered.

And Malia said, quietly, “Nothing you aren’t ready for.”

And now he’s on their bed, and he’s dreaming. He must be dreaming, because Malia is leaning over him kissing him gently, and Theo is rubbing his hand against the bulge in Stiles’s jeans.

He feels the same way he did when he was sixteen and Derek pushed him up against a wall and kissed him.

They see him.

They see him, and they want him anyway.

How is that possible?

He tries to ask the question aloud, and thinks that maybe at least half of the words are in English.

Malia seems to understand anyway. She kisses him again. “We want you, Stiles. You’re perfect.”

No, he wants to tell her.

No, he’s not perfect.

He’s useless, and pathetic, and a thousand other things.

Then Theo kisses him too, his breath warm against Stiles’s lips. He slides a hand inside Stiles’s jeans and underwear, and Stiles arches frantically into his touch. “Perfect,” he echoes.

And Stiles figures that, for now, he’ll try his best to believe them.

And tomorrow too.


	6. Flowers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pairing: Stiles/Derek

He doesn’t bring his mom flowers.

She never liked them. She thought it was sad the way they wilted and died. Once, for Valentine’s Day, his dad brought home sunflowers. A whole bunch of them, still alive, in a blue plastic pot that smelled of damp soil. Stiles and his mom planted them out in the yard a few days later. At the funeral, when people bring flowers, it makes him sick because she didn’t  _like_  flowers, not cut flowers, and they will just wilt and wither and then they will rot, while underneath the ground his mom does the same thing. What sort of  _asshole_  brings flowers to a funeral?

“You can’t  _say_  that, Stiles,” Scott whispers worriedly. “It’s a bad word.”

Stiles is eight, and it turns out that nothing happens if you used a bad word. Nothing worse than has already happened.

In those first horrible weeks when the house stinks of the sickly-sweet perfume of dying flowers, there are no consequences for anything. Not for bad words, not for tantrums, not for pulling palings off the back fence and throwing clumps of mud at the house. Not for not brushing his teeth. Not for eating cereal all day. Not for running around for two days in nothing but his underwear. Not for refusing to go to school. Not for anything.

It confuses him.

He’s so unhappy, still crying himself to sleep every night, and he doesn’t understand how all this sudden freedom, everything he’s ever wanted, only makes him feel worse.

It goes on for too long, probably.

Then, one night, Stiles creeps out of bed and goes downstairs into the living room. His dad is sitting on the couch, still in his uniform, with a glass of something amber in his hand. Stiles sidles into the room. He sits down on the couch next to his dad and picks up the sharpies he’d left there before. He opens his coloring book, and then closes it again. Shoves it onto the floor, uncaps a sharpie, and begins to scribble on the table.

He looks at his dad, his stomach hurting.

For the first time in months he realizes what his thumping heart is saying:  _Notice me, notice me, notice me._

His dad squints at the mess he’s making. His hand is shaking when he sets his glass down. “Stiles? What the  _hell_  are you doing?”

Stiles bursts into grateful tears.

 

***

 

When Stiles is ten, he runs away from school because they’re making pottery vases for Mother’s Day, and he doesn’t want to give his to Melissa. He likes Melissa a lot. She’s patient with him when his ADD makes him act out, and she puts Band-Aids on his knees when he skins them, and she shows him how to make real churros, but she’s not his mom. A part of Stiles is afraid that her kindness is some insidious thing, seeping into all the places inside him that his mom’s death left empty, and he doesn’t want that. He’d rather hurt forever than have a  _fake_  mom. Melissa’s not his mom. She’s not supposed to get his lopsided little vase.

It’s dumb and it’s stupid and it’s not fair that his teacher made him do it.

Stiles smashes his vase on the road and jumps on the shards until they crumble into dust.

 

***

 

When Stiles is eleven, the Hale house burns down. It’s the biggest news in Beacons Hills in forever. A whole bunch of people die. The next time Stiles is at the cemetery he sees the new marker. The Hales don’t have individual graves. Just one single marker for all of them. Stiles wonders if that’s because there weren’t enough bits of bodies left to bother burying them individually, or if because the surviving Hale siblings just couldn’t bear to listen to the sounds of dirt falling on a coffin lid nine different times.   
Stiles sneaks back to the cemetery a few times, but nobody leaves flowers for the Hales either.

He finds out later that Laura and Derek Hale have left Beacon Hills.

 

***

 

He is angry when he is fourteen, when he is fifteen. He wears it just underneath his goofy smile and his awkwardness, just another layer under his baggy plaid shirts. He’s angry because he still doesn’t understand the world or the people in it. He doesn’t understand himself. He thinks he’s okay. He thinks he’s mostly happy, so where does the anger come from? Is it because he knows the world is so unfair? Or because he’s just a fifteen year old kid with hormones?

He spends hours and hours online one night.

Diagnoses himself as bipolar. Then with oppositional defiant disorder. Then with depression. Then anxiety. And then he remembers to take his Adderall and calm the fuck down.

He just…he just wishes everything didn’t always feel like such an uphill battle. That’s all.

 

***

 

Stiles opens his eyes, and is sun-dazzled.

He comes here, sometimes, and follows the familiar paths between the familiar names on the headstones, until he finds himself winding closer and closer to his mom.

All his anger, all his attitude, bleeds away into the grass of the cemetery, sucked down into the earth that steals all things.

There is a part of him that will always be eight years old and profoundly heartbroken.

He stretches, yawns, and is about to climb to his feet when he realizes he’s not alone. There’s a man standing in front of the Hales’ marker. Jeans and black leather jacket. Every line of him tense and bristling with some barely-suppressed emotion that Stiles thinks might be anger, might be utter desolation. They look the same sometimes. Feel the same too.

He watches the guy’s back until he feels guilty for staring.

He leaves, cutting through the historical part of the cemetery to avoid bothering the guy. He passes angels with broken wings, headstones so old the names have been blasted clean by the wind, and columns broken in half that signify lives cut short.

 

***

 

“Stiles.”

“Hey, sourwolf.” Stiles waves at him from his hospital bed and grins. “Have you come to sign my cast?”

Derek only glowers, and stalks away.

 

***

 

Even when Derek is being all growly and standoffish and a total alpha dick and is actively avoiding Stiles, Stiles still sees him. The cemetery becomes a weird no man’s land, where neither of them can claim to have more reason to be there. And because neither of them want to start a fight there, they don’t. Whatever shit they’re going through—Derek’s refusal to let Stiles get involved because he’s human and breakable, or Stiles’s insistence on mouthing off to anyone who threatens the pack—it’s forgotten at the cemetery.

“Did you know you’re not supposed to bring flowers in vessels that don’t have proper approval from the cemetery trust?” Stiles asks idly.

Derek grunts and sets his potted flowers down. They might be geraniums. Stiles really doesn’t know. But he can’t help the flicker of warmth that curls through him when he sees they aren’t cut flowers.

“I know because I once tried to bring a potted plant to my mom,” he continues. “And the groundskeeper threw it out.”

“If he throws it out, I’ll rip his throat out.”

“Good plan,” Stiles says. He nudges Derek gently with his shoulder. “Want to hear a better one?”

 

***

 

He’s not  _quite_  eighteen, but there are worse things he could do than fall into bed with Derek Hale, right? That’s what Stiles tells himself, anyway. And tells his dad as well, repeatedly. But he also kind of gets the idea that his dad doesn’t disapprove as much as he could, and that they’re both going only really arguing about it for appearance’s sake.

“Look, kid,” John says at last, and sighs. “This whole…this whole  _werewolf_  business.” He lowers his voice like the world is an obscenity. “I don’t like that you go out there and that you put yourself in danger—”

“Dad!”

“Let me finish, Stiles. I don’t like it, but I know I’m gonna have to accept it. And if you’re determined to keep doing it, which I know you are, because you’ve always been a stubborn little shit, then I’ll sleep just a little easier knowing you’ve got Derek watching your back.”

“Love you, Dad,” Stiles says, and flings his arms around his father.

“Love you too, kid.” John hugs him tightly. "Just keep it in your pants until you’re eighteen, huh?”

Stiles does them both the favour of pretending not to hear the question.

 

***

 

Stiles takes Derek by the hand and leads him through the gravestones.

“Can I look yet?” Derek asks. He sounds pissed, but also it’s hilarious because he’s still got his eyes closed just because Stiles told him to do it. His grouchiness isn’t fooling Stiles at all.

“Soon!”

It’s still early in the morning. The groundskeeper won’t be here for hours yet. They have the place to themselves.

He guides Derek forward, their fingers twined together.

“Okay,” he says at last, a smile tugging the corners of his mouth. “Okay, you can look now.”

Derek blinks his eyes open.

The ground around the Hale memorial is awash in color. Hundreds of tiny flowers poke up from amongst the blades of grass. Poppies and daisies and geraniums and peonies. A multi-coloured carpet of petals that shiver gently in the breeze.

It’s going to drive the cemetery trust  _insane_.

“All this,” Stiles grins, “for the cost of a few packets of seeds.”

Derek nods, and smiles, and swallows. His eyes shine a little with tears. “Thank you, Stiles. Thank you.”

Stiles leans in and kisses him softly. His throat aches as he fights the urge to cry. It hurts. It always will, probably, but that doesn’t mean life can’t be beautiful too.

Over at his mom’s grave, baby sunflowers lift their faces to the light.

 


	7. you are not alone (not even you)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> @fuckingbunnyslippers brought my attention to @ask-ichigo-and-rukia's beautiful prompt on tumblr: "*Clears throat* I have come to break your heart: Imagine Derek having a rough night maybe it's the anniversary of the fire or Laura's death or something, he feels so alone and worthless, and Stiles sings "No One Is Alone" from Into The Woods to him"
> 
> This slots into the I Know Where Babies Come From, Derek 'verse.
> 
> Pairing: Stiles/Derek

It starts when Claudie has a nightmare. Derek comes struggling out of sleep to find Stiles already cuddling their little girl in his arms and mumble-singing something under his breath as he sways from side to side and Claudie wails softy. Stiles is sleep-mussed with lines on his cheek from the way he sleeps with his face jammed into the pillow. His gaze is unfocussed, his movements slow. He might still be asleep, Derek thinks.

Derek doesn’t know the song that Stiles is murmuring, but very slowly Claudie’s wails trail off into hiccupping little sobs, and then just hiccups, and then a long drawn-out sigh, and finally silence. Stiles sways with her for a few minutes more, then sets her down in her crib again and turns around.

“Hey,” he murmurs, knocking his hip against Derek as he stands in the doorway of the nursery. “You didn’t have to get up.”

Derek wraps his arms around him and draws him close. He presses a kiss to the top of his head.

Stiles yawns, snuffles, and lets Derek draw him back to bed.

 

***

 

The song makes a reappearance years later, for Conor. Conor isn’t prone to nightmares like Claudie was for a little while there. But he is prone to dressing up and singing the songs he loves from the movies that he and Stiles watch avidly. Derek has come home more than once to find Stiles dressed like Cinderella, and Conor dressed like Little Red.

“I refuse to be embarrassed,” Stiles tells him one afternoon, lifting his skirts and stalking away haughtily. “I look _incredible_.”

Conor trails after him, the hem of the red hoodie he borrowed from Stiles sweeping the ground behind him.

Derek and Claudie exchange a dubious look, and Derek sets Claudie’s school backpack down on the floor.

“He does look incredible,” Derek admits to Claudie.

She bursts into giggles, and runs after Stiles and Conor.

 

***

 

“Holy fuck,” Stiles whispers as he holds the baby close. Because, in times of high emotion, Stiles is terrible at modifying his language around children. And not just his own children. He’s been asked not to return to story time at the library. Apparently he got overenthusiastic during _We’re Going on a Bear Hunt._ “Der!”

Derek crouches down in front of him. He curls one hand around Stiles’s knee, and the other around the baby’s crown.

“Der, where’s his _mom_?” Stiles asks, and his voice strains on the word, and then breaks.

Derek leans forward and inhales gently, learning the scent of their newest pup.

Luke is a gift, and he’s one that both Stiles and Derek are afraid they will get asked to give back at any time. They don’t know what pack he’s from. They don’t know how he ended up in Beacon Hills. They don’t know what happened to the people who loved him before they did.

With Luke, the song takes on a different tone when Stiles sings it.

“ _Sometimes people leave you_ ,” Stiles sings softly to Luke, “ _halfway through the wood_.”

And Luke stares up at him placidly, as if he doesn’t mind the way Stiles sometimes ends the song there, before it’s even really begun.

 

***

 

As the kids grow, Derek finds he misses the song. He misses listening to Stiles sing it to the kids. It’s just a song from some dumb movie, and the kids have outgrown it. They’re into different things now. Even Stiles doesn’t hum the song as much. He’s happy to be into whatever the kids are into.

But Derek kind of misses the song.

 

***

 

“Der?” Stiles asks, leaning in the doorway. “What are you doing?”

That should be obvious, surely. He’s on his knees in the living room, pulling every DVD they own out of the cabinet underneath the television, because he’s crazy. He’s a crazy man now. It’s almost three a.m. and why the fuck does this even matter right now? He finished his shift by midnight, and he came home to the dinner Stiles had left for him in the fridge, and he should be in bed, but for some reason he needs to find that stupid movie, find that stupid fucking song, and—

Stiles’s knees thump down onto the rug behind him, and he wraps his arms around him from behind. “Der.”

“What?” He stares at the glossy DVD covers shining on the floor.

How the hell did they end up with so many damn kids’ DVDs when DVDs are meant to be obsolete now anyway? Probably because the kids go through these intense periods of attachments to their favorites, and some of their less technologically-minded babysitters—Stiles’s dad, mostly—don’t have the first clue how to stream their movies. And it would be unthinkable to have a sleepover at Grandpa’s without _Minions_ , right?

“What are you doing?” Stiles asks again, his breath warm against Derek’s shoulder.

He has no fucking idea. No idea. “I wanted to find that movie. That one with the song?”

“What?”

The _song_!”

He misses the warmth and the weight of him when Stiles stands up. But then Stiles moves around in front of him and holds out a hand to help him to his feet.

“Okay,” Stiles says quietly. “I was gonna ask what the hell is going on with you, but it’s the twelfth, isn’t it?”

Shit. Is it? Derek feels the blood drain from his face. How could he _forget_? He never forgets. It’s the anniversary of the fire, and it’s three in the morning, and what the hell is he even doing right now?

Stiles draws him away from the open cabinet and the cascade of DVDs. Draws him quietly up the stairs and into the quiet sanctuary of their bedroom. The moonlight is bright tonight. It paints their bedroom in silver, and makes Stiles’s skin glow.

Stiles shoves the comforter back and eases Derek down onto the mattress. Then he climbs in beside him, and puts his arms around him. It’s easy for Derek to close his eyes and rest his cheek on Stiles’s chest. Stiles is warm and smells of home.

And he always knows exactly what Derek needs.

Stiles’s voice is a little croaky, and he stumbles over a word or two, maybe wavers a little between notes. He sounds exactly the same way he did when he sang this song to their kids. It’s not just the song. It’s not just the words. It’s the way that Stiles sings it, like it’s a promise he’s making, one that Derek didn’t even consciously realize he needed to hear tonight.

“ _You are not alone_ ,” Stiles tells him. “ _Believe me, no one is alone_.”

Derek closes his eyes as Stiles cards his fingers gently through his hair. Tears sting his eyes as he cries for his lost family. As he thanks whatever power exists in the universe for his new one. And the entire time he cries, until the moment he at last falls into an exhausted sleep, Stiles sings to him:

“ _Someone is on your side. You are not alone_.”


	8. Omega

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An a/b/o fic that explores my ongoing fascination with the inherent lack of consent in the omega verse.
> 
> Pairing: Stiles/Peter

Peter Hale was drunk. Drunk enough that he didn’t question his luck. He really, really should have. Because poker wasn’t really his game to begin with. And high stakes poker? Well, Peter didn’t actually _have_ any high stakes. And neither should the man sitting across from him.

John Stilinksi. Town sheriff. It was a position of respect, sure, but not one that came with the sort of salary that should have led him to keep upping the stakes the way he was. The guy was losing too. A part of Peter—the tiny, tiny part of him that was still sober—thought that maybe he was getting set up. Like Stilinski was just pretending to lose, to encourage Peter into making higher and higher bets until suddenly he could pull the rug right out from under him.

But there was nothing in the human’s heartbeat that indicated deception.

Peter dropped his car keys on the table. “Audi,” he slurred. “What have you got, Stilinski?”

The man’s expression hardened for a moment, then he pulled his wallet out of his jeans. Opened it, and tugged a picture out. He flicked it onto the table beside Peter’s car keys.

Peter squinted at it. A pale boy with dark buzzed hair grinned back at him. “Wass’at?”

The sheriff held his gaze. “An omega.”

Peter laughed. He was too drunk to do anything else.

 

***

 

When Peter woke up the next morning, the night before came to him in a series of painfully bright flashes. The bar. The poker game. Holy shit. His _car_. He pressed his nose up against the window, his heartbeat quickening as he took in the empty spot out on the street where he parked.

Jesus fucking Christ.

Had he seriously lost his car in a fucking poker game? Talia was going to kill him. Shit. He’d probably kill himself first, and save her the trouble. He _loved_ that car.

And then his gaze fell on his bedside table, to the small mound of coins there. His car keys were dumped on top of them. Good. So he hadn't lost the car. And he hadn't been dumb enough to drive it home in that condition either. Beside the keys rested a tiny little photograph, just the right size for a wallet.

The sick roiling feeling in Peter’s stomach had nothing to do with his hangover.

An omega.

He’d won an _omega_.

 

***

 

Peter slunk into work late. Four hours late, but who was counting?

“Peter!” Talia said, leaning in his office doorway. “My office, now.”

Talia was counting, apparently.

Peter sighed and followed her to her office. It was right down the hall from his. It had a slightly better view. Of course, she was the CEO of Hale Publishing, while Peter was Chief Acquisitions Editor. It suited them both better. Talia hated dealing with authors, and Peter hated dealing with numbers.

Talia sat down behind her desk, and Peter sighed and slumped into a chair opposite. Talia shoved a stack of paperwork toward him. “Want to explain _this_? A courier dropped it off this morning.”

 _This_ was a lot more words than Peter felt remotely ready to tackle thanks to his hangover, and was it always this bright at midday? But he blinked down at the paperwork for long enough to read the letterhead on the first page: _Department of Omega Registration_.

“Funny story,” he muttered.

Talia folded her arms over her chest. “I highly fucking doubt that, Peter.”

“To be fair, I was incredibly drunk.”

Talia narrowed her eyes at him. “Take the rest of the day off. Don’t come back in until you’ve sorted this mess out.”

Peter wondered if sorting the mess out was the same thing as sneaking back home and going to bed.

Probably not.

He gathered his paperwork up, and slunk out of the office again.

 

***

 

Three cups of coffee and a plate of bacon later, and Peter’s brain was more or less online again. He sat in a café across the road from the Beacon Hills’ Sheriff’s Department and went through the reams of paperwork. Foremost amongst said paperwork was a statutory declaration signed by John Stilinksi and two bastard witnesses that confirmed that Peter Hale had indeed accepted legal responsibility for the omega known as…

Peter squinted at the name. Nope. Nope, those letters made no sense at all.

For the omega.

Peter, an alpha, had accepted legal responsibility for the omega.

It was all kinds of fucked up.

 

***

 

“I’d like to see Sheriff Stilinski,” Peter told the deputy on the front desk. “Now.”

“Do you have an appointment, sir?” the deputy asked.

Peter could barely hold back a snarl. “Tell him it’s Peter Hale. His son-in-law.”

 

***

 

It was probably only the distasteful thought of being arrested that stopped Peter from ripping the sheriff’s throat out in the man’s office. Or at least punching him in the face.

“Hale.” The sheriff did not look hungover at all. Come to think of it, Peter couldn’t remember him drinking that much last night. Apparently he’d been fucking played.

“What the fuck is this?” Peter demanded, slamming his paperwork on the desk.

“Perfectly legal,” Stilinski told him, his voice even.

“Perfectly legal?” Peter asked. “We’ll see what my lawyers say about that, shall we?”

Stilinski’s gaze hardened. “Five thousand.”

“What?”

“It’s all my savings,” Stilinski said. “I’ll give you five thousand to take him.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Peter couldn’t hold back an incredulous laugh. “What the fuck is wrong with your little omega bitch if you’re that desperate to get him off your hands?”

“Don’t talk about my son like that.”

“Like what?” Peter snapped back. “Like he’s nothing but a piece of ass to be handed off to the first drunk mark you see? What’s your game here?”

“No game,” the sheriff said, and for the first time Peter heard the thread of despair in the man’s voice. “I’m deadly serious.”

 

***

 

Some conversations couldn’t be without alcohol, and this was definitely one of them. Peter let Stilinski buy him a drink, and they sat in a booth in some dive bar.

“Stiles was thirteen,” Stilinski said at last, “when he presented. Fourteen when he was caught out past curfew for the first time.”

Peter was only vaguely aware of all the rules and regulations governing an omega’s life. Omegas were rare. There hadn’t been one born in the Hale pack for at least two generations, and the rules for werewolves were slightly different anyway. Because who was going to tell a werewolf they couldn’t be out unaccompanied after dark, omega or not? The authorities were content to let werewolves police their own, as long as it didn’t make waves for the wider community. Human omegas weren’t so lucky.

“He was fifteen when he first got send to a re-education center,” Stilinski said, his voice cracking a little. “Came back a different kid, for a while, but it wasn’t long until he got in trouble again. They brought in these classes at his school. Play-mating. Some bullshit like that. Treating the kids like they’re nothing but—” He shuddered.

Like whores, Peter thought. Like holes.

“Anyway, he punched the instructor. An alpha. Some asshole puts his hands all over my kid, and he’s not allowed to say no?” Stilinski’s hands clenched into fists. “The DOR removed him from my custody. Said I was an unfit parent. He’s been in one of their facilities since, and I’ve got no fucking recourse. He’s eighteen in a week. As soon as he’s an adult, they don’t need me to sign off on whatever alpha they choose for him. So I had to find one first.” He lifted his glass and drained it, making a face at the bitter taste, or perhaps at the bitterness of his words. Of his life.

“Why me?” Peter asked. Not that he wasn’t sympathetic… but why the fuck him?

“Because you’re the only unmated alpha werewolf in town,” Stilinski said frankly. “I put him with wolves, and he’s out of their reach. Your pack has a good reputation. You don’t have a criminal history. Jesus, I wish I could tell you it’s because I know you and I think you’d be good for him, but, frankly, you’re just the least worst option I can think of.”

Peter snorted at that. He could appreciate the man’s honestly, at least. “Any reason you got me drunk first?”

John signaled the barman for another drink. “Is this something you would have considered if you’d been sober?”

“Hell, no.”

“Yeah,” Stilinski said. “That’s what I figured.”

 

***

 

The Department of Omega Registration had a small office in Beacon Hills. Peter and John turned up at nine a.m. sharp the next morning. Peter’s phone had been buzzing in his pocket since yesterday, and he’d ignored it. Because he knew it’d be Talia on the other end, demanding to know if he’d sorted this shit out. And there was no way his older sister, and pack alpha, would have liked where this was going.

Peter was thirty-eight years old and unmated. She’d been telling him for years he needed to find someone. Well, here he was, right? Getting drunkenly railroaded into winning an omega in a bet, and then seriously fucking considering going through with this.

The office smelled of recycled air and something vaguely medical. There was a kid sitting in the reception area, her hands clasped tightly in her lap and her gaze fixed on her scuffed shoes. She looked no older than twelve or thirteen. Her stony-faced parents sat on either side of her. Some newly presented omega, Peter thought, come to be checked over by the DOR doctors to make sure.

Poor kid.

Peter and John handed over the paperwork and identification to the woman behind the counter.

“Please take a seat,” she said. “The omega will be here shortly.”

Peter could feel John bristling at the woman’s tone. He ushered the man over to the plastic seats that lined the wall of the reception area. They sat, and Peter ignored his buzzing phone.

 

***

 

There was nothing like a bureaucracy to turn a simplistic process into an unnecessarily labyrinthine one. They spoke to three different case workers before they were finally ushered into a private waiting room.

A woman met them there. “Hello, I’m Dr. Argent. I’ll be overseeing the omega’s transition today. I think you’ll be very pleased with him. In the two years he’s been with us, his behavior has been beautifully modified.”

Peter didn’t need to be a werewolf to pick up on John’s sudden rush of distress.

The doctor didn’t seem to notice it. “Now, I know you probably have a traditional mating ritual planned for when you get the omega home, but as part of his conditioning we do consider it necessary for you to claim him before you leave the premises.”

Peter exchanged a shocked look with John.

Dr. Argent laughed. “No, nothing too intimate! Of course you’ll want to save that for your ritual. We just ask that you bind him before you leave, and possibly scent him? You’re a werewolf, correct?”

“Correct,” Peter said, not missing the slight change of pitch in her voice that indicated exactly what she thought of that, however well she thought she was disguising it. Specist bitch.

Her answering smile was a little too tight. “Well then, let’s bring the omega in, shall we?”

 

***

 

The boy was naked. He was pale and lean. His mouth was slack, and his eyes were glazed. Peter didn’t need to smell the drugs in his system to know he was doped up to the eyeballs.

Peter couldn’t look at John when he took the collar the DOR provided and wrapped it around the boy’s pale throat. When he took the binder and strapped the boy’s arms tightly behind him. His skin was clammy. He didn’t resist.

“Now, you be a good omega for your alpha,” Dr. Argent said. “I don’t want to hear bad things about you.”

“Yes, ma’am,” the boy mumbled.

Peter led him out of the room.

 

***

 

“Stiles?” John said in the car. “Stiles, kiddo, can you hear me?”

The boy blinked, and failed to focus. “Yes, sir. How do you want me, sir?”

Peter fixed his gaze on the road so he didn’t have to see John break down.

 

***

 

The first few days were hell. John didn’t want to leave his son’s side, despite the fact that Stiles didn’t seem to know who he even was. Peter had only gotten him to leave by threatening to call his own deputies and have him arrested for trespass.

“You need to not be here,” he growled. “You need to give him some time to get those damn drugs out of his system. I’ll call you when he’s lucid. Go home and get some fucking sleep.”

Peter put Stiles in the spare room. He put the collar and the binder in the trash.

On the third morning he awoke to find a pale face peering around his bedroom door.

“Um,” Stiles said, his scent sour with fear. “Who are you?”

 

***

 

Talia, naturally, was livid when she turned up later on the third day to discover that Peter’s idea of sorting out the mess with the omega had meant registering as his alpha and bringing him home.

It didn’t last. The second she took in Stiles’s terrified expression, and Peter filled her in on his history, she introduced herself as the Hale alpha, and welcomed Stiles into the pack.

“My alpha has an alpha?” Stiles asked warily.

“Werewolves, sweetheart,” Peter told him. “Alpha refers to both gender classification and pack rank. In werewolf ranks, I’m actually a beta. But in terms of gender classification, I’m an alpha.”

“What am I?” Stiles asked.

“In the pack, you’re a beta,” Talia said.

Stiles started to laugh, the sound bright and almost hysterical. “Oh my god! I always wanted to be a beta! Wait until I tell my dad!”

 

***

 

It wasn’t perfect. Peter hadn’t lived with anyone in years, and sometimes just wanted some damn space, and Stiles had a difficult time getting past whatever bullshit they’d beaten into him at the re-education center for the past two years. Once, when he yelled at Peter about some stupid TV show they were watching, he’d had a panic attack, suddenly terrified that Peter was going to punish him. It had taken Peter hours to convince him that he really didn’t care if Stiles wanted to watch different shows, and he thought Peter’s were stupid. That he was allowed to have a different opinion, and they were allowed to argue about dumb things. They were allowed to argue about _anything_.

Some days it felt like one step forward and two steps back. 

Other days, Stiles curled up next to Peter on the couch like he belonged there. Those days gradually began to outnumber the others, until Peter couldn't imagine a life without Stiles in it. Irritating, aggravating Stiles. Hell, Peter was no prize either, right? Whatever this was between them, it somehow actually worked. 

Four months after Stiles came to live with him, they had a traditional mating ceremony. Minus the collar and binder, because fuck that shit. Peter didn’t want a docile little omega. Where was the fun in that?

Stiles migrated into Peter’s bedroom, and into his bed, and even though the spare room was always there in case he needed it, he didn’t move back.

For their first anniversary Peter bought Stiles a puppy.

John bought Peter a bottle of twenty-year-old wolfsbane-infused Scotch.

“I thought you could crack it open and we could play a few hands of poker,” he suggested.

Peter raised his eyebrows. “No offense, John, but I’m never getting drunk and gambling with you again.”

From the couch, Stiles chortled with laughter.

 


	9. Copy That

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pairing: Stiles/Derek 
> 
> A little drabble I wrote at work.  
> Fun fact: I have taken every one of these calls myself.

As summer jobs go, it’s better than waiting tables. Stiles knows the lingo, he’s done the course, and he is good to go. Okay, so he’s freaking out just a tiny bit as well, and he brought three pens in case two of them stop working, but he’s got this, okay? He’s got this. Besides, this is Beacon Hills, not L.A. What’s the worst thing that can—

And Stiles nips that question in the bud before he can get it out, even in his head. He’s not going to tempt fate by finishing it.

He sits down at his desk, plugs his headset in, and stares expectantly at the phone and the radio console.

And nothing happens.

Nothing continues to happen, stubbornly, for twelve whole minutes. And then the phone rings. Stiles hits the answer button, his heart pounding. This is it. His first 911 call. He opens his mouth to speak, and finds the caller is already yelling at him.

“—and it’s been thirty-six minutes and it’s not here yet!”

“Wait, what?” Stiles squints at the screen, waiting for the map to update. “What isn't there yet?”

“My fucking _pizza_!”

For a second Stiles is stunned into silence, but only for a second. Then he remembers that this fucking brain surgeon is tying up an emergency line. “Oh my god! Are you kidding me, dude? You can’t call 911 over a pizza!”

“I’m a taxpayer!” the guy yells back.

“You’re a fucking _idiot_!” Stiles ends the call and slumps back in his chair, glaring at the screen.

Oh. Okay. So that wasn’t really in the training. In fact, Stiles is pretty certain he’s not allowed to hang up on anyone, even if they are total douchenozzles. But hey, this is a learning curve, okay?

Stiles quietly panics that calling the guy an idiot is going to send him into a rage-fuelled killing spree for revenge, and that it will all be Stiles’s fault. He really doesn’t want to kill anyone on his first night.

He’s still having a slight meltdown about it when he gets a call from one of the deputies on road to run a name check for him.

Okay, now that’s a lot less problematic. Stiles has been running name checks through the police database since he was fourteen. But, of course, the less said about that the better. It’s weird to do it with his own user ID and password and not his dad’s.

After that, Stiles falls into a routine. He’s got this. This is going well. Okay, there are only four deputies working, and only three actual jobs in the entire system, but that’s quite enough to handle right now, thanks very much. Carol, the dispatcher who looked after him for his brief mentoring period, could run multiple major incidents on a busy Friday night in her sleep, but Stiles suspects she’s not quite human.

He wants to grow up and be just like her.

 

***

 

At midnight, Parrish comes in to see if he wants a bathroom break. It’s only when he’s standing up that Stiles realizes how much tension he’s been holding in his body while he’s been sitting for the past few hours.

He heads to the bathroom, makes a coffee on the way back, and slides back into his seat to find out he’s missed exactly nothing.

“So how’s it all going in here?” Jordan asks him.

“Um, good?” Stiles tries to make it sound less like a question. But pizza guy hasn’t called back and he hasn’t gone on a rampage either, so Stiles is taking that as a win.

Yes, he’s winning at this.

 

***

 

It’s exactly 0131 hours when Deputy Hale calls in on the radio, and Stiles’s stomach does that weird little clench thing it does whenever he hears Deputy Hot-as-the-sun’s voice, except this time Hale is actually _talking directly to him_. For a moment Stiles’s brain shorts out.

It may be a longish moment.

“You there, dispatch?” Hale asks.

“Um, yeah, right here. Sorry. Go ahead.”

Professionalism. Stiles can do this.

“You hungry, kid?”

What? Also, _kid_?

“I’m twenty-one,” Stiles tells him. “I am not a kid.”

For a moment there’s nothing but dead air, and then static crackles. “Okay, you’re not a kid. Are you hungry though?”

Stiles wonders if this is a trick question. “Kind of, yeah.”

“See you soon,” Hale says.

Stiles follows the little GPS blip on the map, and grins as Hale stops outside the diner.

 

***

 

“Listen, darling,” the drunk and possibly crazy woman drawls into Stiles’s ear. “All I’m saying is that I wouldn’t trust him as far as cheese rolling down the street.”

Yes, crazy. Definitely crazy. Stiles is enthralled.

“Tell me _everything_ ,” he breathes down the phone, and settles in for the ride of his life.

 

***

 

Cold curly fries aren’t very nice, but they are still a lot better than no curly fries. Because while Hale was in the diner, a call for a domestic dispute came through. Stiles, his heart racing, had talked to the woman while her kids screamed in the background and her boyfriend banged on the doors, and he got Reyes and Baxter heading straight to the scene. Hale headed over too, of course, and by the time it’s all over Stiles’s curly fries are cold and congealed in the bottom of the bag.

“Thanks, dude,” Stiles says anyway, and tugs his wallet out of his jeans.

Hale waves it away. “Sorry they’re cold.”

Stiles shrugs. “I was just going to get something from the vending machine, so this is much better.”

“The vending machine?” Hale looks personally affronted. “That’s full of candy.”

“Right?” Stiles grins. “Isn’t it great?”

Hale gives him the side-eye. “Have a good shift, kid.”

“Not a kid!” Stiles yells after him, and checks his wallet to make sure he’s got enough cash to grab some Twizzlers later.

Okay, so maybe he is a kid.

 

***

 

“My neighbors are having a loud party,” the woman bitches in Stiles’s ear.

“Oh,” Stiles says. He kind of hates her already. “Um, okay. Like your next door neighbors?”

“I live on the hill,” the woman says, “and I look down on them.”

“I can tell that by the tone of your voice.”

“Excuse me?”

Whoops.

 

***

 

At 3 a.m. Stiles hits the brick wall of exhaustion. Like he literally can’t stop his eyes from closing. Also, he kind of wants to put his head on his desk and cry. He can’t possibly last until six. He should probably kill himself now. The blast of static in his headset almost stops his heart.

“Dispatch, I’ve got a silent alarm at the back of Henderson’s on Third. Show me off.”

“Whaa—” Holy shit. Where is he and what’s going on? Also, what’s his name? No, that's not important right now. He’ll come back to it later. “Um, sorry, show who off where?”

“It’s Hale.” He sounds like he’s really regretting paying for Stiles’s curly fries right about now. “Show me off at a silent alarm at the back of Henderson’s on Third.”

“Right. Showing you off.” Henderson’s is a hardware store. It takes Stiles three separate attempts to actually type the correct status update, but he gets there in the end. Then he quietly panics about the fact that Derek Hale is probably walking into a burglary in process, and what if there are shots fired, and holy shit, should he get backup heading there just in case?

“Dispatch, show me back on. Looks all secure. Probably just tripped by a racoon or something.”

“That’s probably what they want you to think. What if the raccoons are trying to use our own technology against us? Raccoons with _tools_. It’s the beginning of the end.”

There is a very lengthy and possibly sarcastic pause before Hale responds. “Sure.”

It’s extremely likely that Deputy Hale has no sense of humor.

It’s also extremely likely that fatigue has severed the last flimsy connection between Stiles’s admittedly scant brain filter and his mouth.

 

***

 

“Fuck you, motherfucker bitch. Motherfucker _slut_.”

“Fuck you too,” Stiles yawns as the call disconnects.

He gets up, stretches, and then rolls his eyes at his console. Because, okay, he knew he’d cop abuse. But that shit? That shit wasn’t even _original_.

 

***

 

At ten to six Carol comes in to take over.

“Well, you’re not a gibbering mess, so I guess you did okay,” she says, setting her cup of tea down.

Stiles waits until she logs in to her computer before he unplugs. “Yeah, I guess. And I only got called a motherfucking bitch slut once, so yay me.”

“Yay you,” Carol says dryly, but Stiles likes to imagine there’s a smile lurking somewhere behind her terrifyingly frosty exterior. “Now go home, and stop cluttering the place up.”

Stiles escapes while he can.

 

***

 

In the parking lot, the sunlight hits him full in the face and it just feels _wrong_. Stiles is dead on his feet. The world has no business being _sunny_. He staggers toward his Jeep, and wonders what the chances are that he’ll run it off the road on the ten minute drive home. To be honest, the odds feel pretty high.

“Hey, kid.”

Stiles spins around, arms flailing. “Jesus! Where the hell did you come from?”

Deputy Hale flashes him a smile, and obviously the answer is heaven. Directly from fucking heaven. Some sort of magical porn-filled heaven.

“You gonna be okay to drive, kid?”

“Not a kid,” Stiles reminds him, narrowing his eyes.

“Yeah, I know,” Hale says. “Just helps me remember whose son you are.”

Stiles snorts, and then tilts his head. “What?”

Hale raises his ludicrously expressive eyebrows. “It helps me remember you’re the sheriff’s kid.”

“Okay,” Stiles says. His brain is way too tired to puzzle this through. “So? You gonna be all weird about that?”

“Oh,” Hale says, stepping closer. “I’m the weird one? Not the guy who thinks raccoons are arming themselves against humanity?”

Stiles holds up a finger. “Hey, I never said they were arming themselves against humanity. But obviously if they’re learning to use tools, that’s the next step.”

Hale’s eyes narrow but his mouth twitches. “Obviously.”

“Anyway,” Stiles says, digging in his pocket for his keys. “I didn’t get this job because of who my dad is. I got it because I did better than all the other applicants on the test.”

And sure, a lifetime of listening in to a police scanner had helped. And his uncanny familiarity with the police database. Point is though, his dad didn’t need to pull any strings for him to get the job.

“Yeah,” Hale says, his expression unreadable. “That’s not the problem here.”

“Then what’s the problem?” Stiles juts his chin out. “And maybe you can make it quick, because I am really fucking tired right now, and I’d love to get home and get to sleep before I get my second wind, you know? I already drank three Red Bulls last night so I’m pretty sure if I can't lock down this sleep thing straight away I'll spend the entire day bouncing off the walls or something.”

Hale’s mouth quirks up in a quick grin. “I know a few tricks to getting to sleep.”

“Like what?”

Hale leans in so close that Stiles can smell his aftershave. And it’s fucking delicious. “Like maybe I can take you back to my place and blow you until you collapse?”

Oh.

_Oooooh!_

That’s why Hale doesn’t like to remember whose son he is.

Because that would be highly, highly inappropriate.

And also totally hot as fuck.

By the time Stiles’s brain gets on board with the idea, his dick is already champing at the bit.

If it had a bit? And also _teeth_?

Oh god. Sleep deprivation is the _worst_. What is his brain even _doing_?

“Yes,” he blurts out. “Please take me to your place and blow me so I sleep like a baby.”

Hale’s smirk grows into a dazzling smile, and he gestures to a black Camaro parked a few spaces down.

Stiles jiggles his car keys and snorts. “Oh, okay, sure. I’ll ride in your car, and then when my dad arrives for work, he can wonder why mine is still in the lot. Seriously?”

“Good point,” Hale admits.

“Which one of us is supposed to be the trained investigator here?” Stile grins and wrenches the door of the Jeep open. “Let’s go, before the raccoons attack.”

“You’re a fucking idiot,” Hale says, but it sounds like he doesn’t really mind that much.

“Copy that,” Stiles agrees, and swings himself into the driver’s seat.

 

***

 

On Monday night he’s halfway through his first can of Red Bull when Derek calls him up to verify a name check.

“Can you go with that name again?” Stiles asks him. “You sound a little croaky. Something wrong with your throat?”

And then he starts laughing so hard that he almost falls out of his chair.

Derek gets him back by going to a car yard and running every licence plate.

Stiles gets him back by sending him to a non-existent break and enter at the local toy store, and telling him to take up with the complainants Barbie and Ken.

Derek gets him back by stealing his Jeep and then saying it’s on fire in the Preserve.

Stiles gets him back by super gluing his locker shut.

Things kind of escalate from there. 

A month later, when the live raccoon in Derek’s desk drawer lands them both in front of the sheriff’s desk—Stiles claims the entire thing is a total mystery—John Stilinski just sighs and shakes his head at the pair of them.

“I don’t care who started it, it ends now,” he says in his best sheriff voice. “Now get the hell back to work.”

"Copy that," Stiles grins, and lets Derek leave first so he can slap his ass. 

"Jesus Christ," he hears his dad mutter. 

Stiles laughs all the way back to his office. 

 

 

 


	10. Happy Birthday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pairing: none!   
> Just a depressing little kid!Stiles fic really.

There’s probably a time in every kid’s life when he sees for the first time that his parents are flawed.

Or maybe Stiles was lucky, right up until the time he was eight. Maybe other kids never had the same unquestioning faith that he did: that his parents would always be there, would always look out for him, would always protect him. Would always be unbreakable. Maybe it would have felt less like his world was ending if he’d always known that they were just people too.

He’s eight when it happens. When he finds out that his mom isn’t just sick, but that she’s going to _die_. When he looks over at his dad, needing to hear how his dad is going to _fix_ it, and sees that his dad is crying.

Both of his parents break in different ways.

Afterward, when his mom is nothing but a name carved on a headstone, when he feels her absence like an ache inside him all the time, he watches as his dad drinks more and more every night. Watches as the whiskey turns him into a crumpled mess of man who just cries and cries and cries.

Stiles doesn’t need whiskey to cry.

On his ninth birthday, Stiles makes himself oatmeal in the microwave, then puts the empty bottles from the night before in the trash so that Mrs. McCall doesn’t see them when she comes to pick him up for school. His dad never asks him to do that, just like he doesn’t ask him to clean up stains of sick on the living room carpet, or put his stinking clothes in the washing machine. But Stiles’s first instinct is to protect his dad, to stop everyone else from finding out how badly broken he really is. Protecting the illusion feels like protecting himself too. Stiles doesn’t know how to fix broken things, so he has to pretend they aren’t broken.

In the car on the way to school, Scott gives him his birthday present. It’s a bunch of Batman comics and a 3D maze book. He asks Stiles what his dad got him, and Stiles pretends to be too excited by the comics to answer. Stiles gets the comics confiscated less than an hour later because he’s trying to read them in class. His teacher gives them back at lunchtime though.

“Are you having a party?” one of their classmates asks when they’re hanging upside down from the monkey bars.

“Yes,” Stiles says, because he can’t think of a way to say no. Scott looks at him in surprise, and Stiles worries he’s going to give the whole game away. “Of course I am. It’s on Saturday.”

That afternoon he painstakingly writes out invitations to his birthday party. Twenty invitations. He delivers them to his classmates the next morning.

Jackson Whittemore looks at his disdainfully.

“We’re probably having a petting zoo and everything,” Stiles tells him.

Jackson’s eyes widen at that.

Stiles isn’t dumb. He’s always been a smart kid. A part of him knows that this lie is already too big, that it’s going to be a disaster. Another part of him clings to every movie he’s ever seen or book he’s ever read where a kid gets a miracle at the end.

Stiles is owed a miracle, right?

But then again, maybe he isn’t, because in all those stories it’s only the good kids who get rewarded, and maybe Stiles isn’t really a good kid. He’s a good _liar_ , but that’s really not the same thing. He’s such a good liar that in the end even Scott thinks the party is real.

On Friday afternoon Stiles scatters the entire contents of the kitchen pantry across the floor in desperation. Of course his dad hasn’t been grocery shopping. They don’t even have chips or soda.

The party is at 10 a.m. tomorrow, and twenty kids are coming, and there’s not even chips and soda.

That night his dad drinks until he falls asleep on the couch.

Stiles lies awake, panicking about tomorrow.

 

***

 

When morning comes, it’s overcast. Maybe it will rain. Maybe everyone will stay away if it rains.

The doorbell rings at quarter to ten.

Stiles, feeling sick, hides on the turn of the stairs when his dad answers the door.

“Are we the first ones here?” the mom asks.

“First ones here for what?” his dad asks.

Stiles scrubs at the humiliating tears sliding down his cheeks.

More kids arrive, until it feels like Stiles’s whole class must be standing on the front doorsteps with their parents, while his dad’s confusion grows and grows. It feels like hours before they’re gone again.

Stiles hides in his closet and draws his legs up and buries his face in his knees.

He wishes his mom wasn’t dead.

He wishes he was.

It’s past midday when Stiles finally climbs out of his closet. He really needs to pee. He goes to the bathroom, then stands at the top of the steps listening carefully. He can hear voices downstairs. From the living room maybe?

Stiles is also kind of hungry. Maybe he can grab a jar of peanut butter and sneak back into his closet before his dad sees him.

He moves down the stairs quietly, sticking close to the wall. Then he sneaks into the kitchen, avoiding the living room doorway by miles.

He’d be home free except Scott is sitting at the kitchen table, working on a puzzle in the awesome 3D maze book he got Stiles on Wednesday. He looks up when Stiles gasps, and there is something in his expression that Stiles has only seen there once before. It’s kind of like pity, but it’s also like something even sadder than that, something that belongs on a much older kid, maybe. It’s mostly like the look Sam gets on his face right before he picks Frodo up and carries him to the top of Mount Doom.

It’s like they’re in this together.

It’s the exact same look that he had on his face when Stiles kept trying not to cry at his mom’s funeral. It’s the sort of look that promises Scott won’t tell anyone if he does.

So he does.

Again.

And Scott maybe cries a bit too.

 

***

 

Stiles doesn’t know what his dad and Mrs. McCall talk about for so long. He’s afraid his dad will be mad that Stiles made him look like a fool in front of so many people. He’s not really expecting his dad to _apologize_. But that’s exactly what his dad does. He hugs him, and cries, and promises not to forget about him again, not even for a minute.

On Sunday his dad takes him to the mall and buys him a video game. They have lunch at McDonalds. Then, back at home, they play the game together. For hours.

On Monday Stiles takes a new bunch of party invitations to school. His dad has called every parent and explained there was a mix up in the dates, and he should have vetted the first lot of invitations before Stiles handed them out.

His dad is a very good liar too, but this is a lie that works because people just think Stiles’s dad made a mistake, not that Stiles is a loser.

On Saturday, Melissa turns up with a birthday cake, and Scott.

Then the rest of the guests arrive.

There’s no petting zoo, but the K9 handler from the Sheriff’s Department turns up and shows everyone what the dog can do. Including pee on command. That’s probably better than some goat anyway.

That night the trash is full of soda cans and candy wrappers.

Stiles doesn’t see another whiskey bottle for years.


	11. Love and Cholesterol

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pairing: Derek/Stiles pre-slash. 
> 
> A hostage situation, you say? Why not!

Stiles’s dad always says he has a knack for attracting trouble. Which is not technically true. Stiles doesn’t _attract_ trouble, okay? He kind of goes looking for it. He’s fifteen, and he lives in small town California. What the hell else is there to do?

But he’s not looking for trouble right now.

He’s totally blameless right now.

He just came in to exchange some money—because his dad’s cousin’s uncle or whatever in Poland has sent him money for his upcoming sixteenth birthday, except it’s in zloty, and Stiles has no idea how much it’s worth, and knowing his luck he’ll end up owing the bank by the time they take out the conversion fee—and today was _not_ the day he was supposed to get caught up in a bank robbery.

“Get on the floor! Get on the fucking floor!”

There are three of them. Balaclavas and guns.

For a second Stiles just stares, clutching his handful of zloty, because this just doesn’t compute, and then another customer in the queue grabs him and drags him down to the floor.

Holy shit.

The other customer is Derek Hale.

Derek ‘This is private property’ Hale.

Derek ‘I probably _did_ kill my sister but for some reason your dad let me go anyway’ Hale.

For a second Stiles doesn’t know what’s weirder. The fact that Derek Hale uses a bank instead of burying his money with the dismembered corpses of his victims, or the fact that he smells a little bit like cinnamon?

Wait.

No.

It’s the fact that they’re in the middle of a bank robbery.

Stiles really needs to focus.

 

***

 

Stiles has planned plenty of bank robberies before in his life. It’s purely theoretical, just like he’s planned how to survive the zombie apocalypse. It’s not something he intends to use. Point is though, he’s better at planning bank robberies than these guys.

For starters, simple recon should have alerted them to the fact that this bank has those screens in the tellers’ counter that slam straight down and _boom_ , the tellers are safe.

Which, good for them right? Stiles kind of hates them all right now, but that’s just the jealousy talking.

So the screens are up, and now it’s just the bank robbers and the customers left in the foyer. Three robbers, and about twelve customers. Those would be good odds apart from the guns.

Meanwhile, it’s been less than fifteen or twenty seconds since this whole thing started, but Stiles knows that the silent alarms have already been tripped and the cops are on the way.

They just have to wait it out, right?

 

***

 

Derek Hale smells like leather and cinnamon. Seriously, cinnamon. It’s very disconcerting. Not as disconcerting as the three assholes with guns but, frankly, Stiles could use the distraction.

Apart from the whole serial killer vibe, he’s actually kind of hot.

Okay, he’s _totally_ hot.

When Stiles finds himself wanting to lean closer and closer into Derek Hale’s personal space just to try and chase down that tantalising smell, his heart skips a beat, and he figures that, actually it might be safer, in more ways than one, to pay attention to the guys with the guns instead.

 

***

 

So much in life comes down to timing.

The guys with the guns aren’t happy to realize the tellers, and the cash, are safely locked behind the bulletproof screens.

They have a short freak out about it—this is not the way they planned for their day to go—and then they rush toward the doors again.

Right before they get there, Stiles hears the wailing siren and the screech of brakes outside.

And the guys with the guns are trapped.

And suddenly this isn’t a robbery anymore.

This is a hostage situation.

 

***

 

“Get your phones out!” one of the robbers yells. “Get your fucking phones out and put them on the floor.”

Stiles’s hands shake when he obeys, and he watches as one of the guys kicks his phone across the tiles way, way out of reach.

“You,” the robber says, digging the toe of his boot into Derek Hale’s leg. “Where’s your phone.”

I don’t have a phone,” Derek Hale says.

“Everyone has a phone.”

“I don’t,” Derek Hale says, and obviously he’s a sociopath because he doesn’t even blink when the guy jams his gun in his face.

“You,” the guys says to Stiles. “Check his pockets.”

Stiles’s hands shake when he does that as well, and Derek Hale is probably going to kill him later for bad-touching him by digging his fingers into the pockets of his super tight jeans and pulling the lining out so the robber can see he wasn’t lying, and he has no phone.

Holy god. Stiles is so relieved he wasn’t lying. He doesn’t want to end up with a bullet in his skull just because Derek Hale is stupidly attached to his iPhone.

“Up against the wall,” the guy says, gesturing toward the counter. “Everyone, stay down, but move up against the wall.”

Stiles kind of crawls, kind of ass-shuffles across the floor, and leans back against the wall below the counter. Derek Hale slumps back next to him, and apparently he’s going to be Stiles’s hostage-buddy for the duration. Which is cool. Okay, he looks scary as fuck, but Stiles can’t think of a better time to have someone scary-as-fuck by his side.

If Derek Hale notices that Stiles shifts just a fraction of an inch closer, he doesn’t mention it.

 

***

 

The first hour of the siege is kind of exciting, actually. Like, Stiles’s adrenaline is keeping him pumped and alert, and the time passes really, really quickly.

Asshole One—Stiles wasn’t very creative when it came to naming the guys—keeps lookout near the door and occasionally yells at the police that he’s going to shoot a hostage if they try and get any closer.

Asshole Two paces up and down in front of the hostages and looks menacing.

And Asshole Three stands in the corner and watches _everything_.

Except that’s all that happens, and Stiles is hungry, and he hasn’t has his Adderall today, and he’s twitchy, and nervous, and somehow even though he’s in a hostage situation he’s also really _bored_ , and what even is that about?

“Stop it,” Derek Hale mutters, and puts a hand on Stiles’s knee.

Stiles hadn’t even noticed it was jiggling.

“Sorry,” he whispers back. “Sorry.”

Derek keeps his hand there. Squeezes Stiles kneecap gently.

“Why do you smell like cinnamon?” Stiles whispers, and Derek’s eyebrows judge him.

Also, he sort of growls?

 

***

 

Stiles isn’t the first one to freak out, actually. That dubious honor belongs not to the old lady with the walking frame, or even the kid who’s a few years younger than Stiles. No, the honor goes to some fucking dick who starts blathering about needing to get out of here, and surely they didn’t need all the hostages, right, not when, not when—

Stiles feels sick to the stomach as the guy raises his hand and points to him.

Not when they’ve got the sheriff’s kid.

 

***

 

“Oh, shit,” Stiles says, when Asshole Two grabs him by the neck of his hoodie and drags him forward. He scrabbles for purchase on the tiles. “Oh shit, no, please.”

Derek makes that growling noise again.

“Move, and I shoot him,” Asshole Two says, and for a second Stiles doesn’t know exactly what he means, and then he realizes the guy is threatening Derek. Which is weird, because right up until today the only other person apart from Asshole Two who’s ever made Stiles feel so afraid for his personal safety is actually Derek. They can probably bond over that later, right? Derek and Asshole Two.

Asshole Two hauls Stiles to his feet and drags him toward the front doors of the bank.

Big old thick glass doors.

Stiles stands in front of them, shaking, staring out into the street.

Lot of police cars.

Lot of police.

His heart skips a beat when he sees his dad. He’s across the street, standing behind the hood of a police car. And he’s staring straight back at Stiles, his face a mask of shock.

The barrel of the gun is strangely warm against Stiles’s temple.

He blinks, and tears slide down his face.

Asshole Two pulls him away from the door again. “Get your phone,” he says. “Get your phone and call the sheriff.”

 

***

 

“Hey, dad,” Stiles says, his voice cracking.

“Stiles.” His dad’s voice sounds like it’s close to breaking too. “You okay, kid?”

Stiles isn’t allowed to answer that. He reads from the note Asshole Two gave him instead. “If any attempts are made to enter the bank, a hostage will die. Test us on this, and it will be your son.”

He ends the call, and Asshole Two point him back into position beside Derek.

Stiles sits back down.

Derek puts his arm around him.

Stiles barely notices.

 

***

 

The thing is, these guys don’t have an exit strategy. They know it, and the hostages know it. Which means they have two options here. They can either surrender and walk out in the arms of the police, or they can decide to go down in a blaze of glory and more bloodshed than a 1970s horror movie. A rational person would choose surrender, but what are the chances these guys are rational?

You know who else isn’t rational? Derek. Derek is not fucking rational.

“Hey,” he says, climbing to his feet. “What about you let the old lady go? And the kid?”

“Sit the fuck down, leather jacket!”

Derek doesn’t. “It’s getting late,” he says. “You’ll win points with the cops if you let them go. You don’t need them. You’ve got enough collateral with the rest of us.”

“Y-yeah!” someone else pipes up. It’s the dick who gave Stiles away in the first place. “You don’t need any of us except the sheriff’s kid!”

Seriously? What the hell has Stiles ever done to that guy?

Derek’s lip curls.

“Sit down and shut up!” Asshole Two yells.

Derek sits down and shuts up.

 

***

 

Outside, it’s dark already. The lights in the bank are still on.

“I mean,” Stiles whispers to Derek, “all I’m saying is it’s totally unacceptable to send someone cash in a foreign denomination when there’s such a thing as Paypal, right?”

Derek gives him the side eye, which Stiles decides to interpret as agreement.

 

***

 

They let the old woman and the kid go. They also let another woman go, because she’s pregnant. And an older guy who shows them his heart medication gets to leave too.

It leaves eight hostages and three gunmen.

Stiles would like to think their odds have improved or something, but he knows that’s bullshit.

 

***

 

At about eight p.m. they get pizzas.

Stiles has never been less excited about pizza in his life.

 

***

 

The gunmen start talking shit about helicopters and Rio, and wow, they must watch more ridiculous movies than Stiles.

 

***

 

“Dude, I’ve got a fucking target on me,” Stiles whispers, tugging the sleeves of his hoodie down over the end of his hands and balling his fists up.

“Nothing’s going to happen to you,” Derek says. He’s watching the gunmen. He’s _always_ watching the gunmen, like he can see at least twelve different ways to kill them in every given second, and is just trying to work out which one is most spectacular. He is totally a serial killer. Stiles has a terrible choice in hostage-buddies.

“Yeah,” Stiles says, and knocks his shoulder against Derek’s. “Look. Just look at me for a second, okay? This is important?”

Derek turns his head. Holy shit he has pretty eyes.

“Um.” Stiles swallows. “If I don’t make it out, please tell me dad that I love him?”

“You’re going to make it out,” Derek tells him.

“Sure,” Stiles says, his stomach twisting. “But if I _don’t_ , okay?”

Derek looks almost concerned. Or like he’s suffering indigestion. It’s hard to tell.

“Tell him that I love him,” Stiles repeats. There are a million other things he wants to say, but he guesses that sums it up. Almost. “And tell him to watch his cholesterol. Got that?”

“Sure,” Derek murmurs, his expression softening. “Love and cholesterol.”

 

***

 

Right around midnight, Asshole One loses it.

He drags Stiles in front of the door and jams the barrel of his gun under his jaw. “Where’s our fucking helicopter, Stilinski? Huh? You want to see your kid’s skull come apart right now? You want to see his brains splattered up against the wall?”

_Oh god oh god oh god._

Asshole One digs the barrel in further. “Tell him, kid. Tell your daddy that you don’t want to die!”

“I don’t want to die,” Stiles babbles obediently. “Please, Dad! Please, I don’t want to die!”

 

***

 

Stiles thinks he even sleeps for a few minutes. Maybe it’s just that he’s so fatigued with fear or something, or maybe it’s the way that Derek keeps his arm around him and encourages him to rest his head on his shoulder, but, somehow, he actually manages to sleep for a bit.

It doesn’t last long.

 

***

 

When the lights go out, plunging the bank foyer into darkness, that’s when Stiles knows he’s going to die. That’s when he knows that the gunmen will either try to use him as a shield before the SWAT team appears, or they’ll kill him just so that the sheriff doesn’t win.

He is definitely, definitely going to die.

He sees shapes looming toward him out of the darkness.

And suddenly there’s a warm body shielding his.

Cinnamon and leather, crowding him against the floor, bracketing him there with his arms.

The crack of gunfire.

“Derek!” Stiles cries, horrified, as he feels Derek’s body jerk against his. Hears Derek grunt in pain. And then he can smell blood. Oh god, so much blood.

And then flash grenades.

Then the SWAT team.

Then noise and lights and chaos, and all Stiles knows is that Derek Hale is lying on top of him, and he’s bleeding to death.

“Derek,” he whispers.

Derek doesn’t move.

 

***

 

“Stiles!” His dad is kneeling beside him, hands running over him looking for wounds. “Stiles, are you okay?”

“What?” Stiles blinks around blearily.

His dad hugs him tightly. “Oh, Jesus, kid.”

“Where’s Derek?” Stiles asks, his breath hitching. “He was here but— What happened to Derek?”

“Who?” his dad asks.

“Is he dead?” Stiles asks, unable to stop the tears. “Did they take the body already?”

“Stiles,” his dad says, gripping his hand tightly. “Nobody’s moved any bodies. The hostages are all okay.”

No, that’s impossible.

Derek was lying on top of him, and the guys _shot_ him, and it’s impossible that he’s okay. It’s impossible.

“Derek!”

And then he sees Derek walking toward him, wearing a really pissed off glower, and how is he up and walking? How is he even _alive_?

Stiles isn’t an idiot.

He doesn’t believe in miracles.

He just… he just doesn’t have another word yet for what the fuck this is.

 

***

 

It’s chaos, basically.

There’s a trip to the hospital, then a trip to the Sheriff’s Department, and lots of questions and a statement to be signed, and it’s almost dawn by the time Stiles makes it outside again.

“Just a second, Dad,” he says, when he sees Derek Hale standing in the parking lot of the station looking…lost. There’s nobody here to pick Derek up, to make sure he gets home okay.

Stiles walks over to him.

“So, um,” he says. “Thanks?”

Derek jerks his head in a sharp nod.

“I’m gonna hug you now,” Stiles tells him.

Derek looks pained. He sighs.

Stiles wraps his arms around him quickly. “You smell like cinnamon.”

“I was in the coffee shop before the bank,” Derek says. “The barista dropped the cinnamon down my front.”

“Is it because you growled at her?” Stiles asks. His fingertips find a hole in the back of Derek’s leather jacket, and his heart races. One hole, and then another one.

“Him,” Derek says. “And yes.”

Stiles jabs a finger in one of the bullet holes. “How are you still alive?”

Derek rumbles.

“Are you a super hero?” Stiles asks.

“No.”

Stiles steps back, and tilts his head. He looks Derek up and down. “I’m going to figure it out, you know.”

Derek rolls his eyes.

“Dad!” Stiles yells. “We’re taking Derek to our place for breakfast!”

Derek looks particularly murderous, but he follows Stiles over to his dad’s cruiser without complaint.

 

***

 

Life is full of mysteries.

Derek Hale is probably the biggest mystery of all.

Stiles is definitely going to solve him.

He starts with how Derek likes his eggs and pancakes, and goes from there.

Some mysteries are worth solving.

Others, not so much.

He never does bother finding out what his zloty are worth.


	12. Fluffy Yellow Towel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Who doesn't love a little Finstock? 
> 
> Pairing: pre-slash Stiles/Derek

 

“Bilinksi!”

Stiles should have known better than to answer a call from an unknown number at almost midnight on a Tuesday. But it’s Beacon Hills. It’s bound to be an emergency.

“Coach?” he asks in surprise, because who else calls him Bilinksi? And also, what the ever-living fuck?

“Bilinski,” Finstock barks again. “I need you! I need you now!”

Um, okay. Weirdest booty call ever, or… no, Stiles really has no idea.

“What?”

“I ran over a goddamn dog!”

 

***

 

Fifteen minutes later Stiles is pulling up outside Finstock’s house. It’s a small bungalow in a quiet neighborhood. The dead lawn is covered in Halloween decorations. In April. Stiles isn’t even surprised.

He climbs out of his Jeep and heads to the front door.

Finstock throws it open before he has a chance to knock. He looks a little more manic than usual, if that’s even possible.

“Where’s your stuff?” he demands.

“What stuff?” Stiles asks.

Finstock makes a vague gesture. “Your _vet_ stuff, Bilinski. Jesus!”

Stiles sighs. “No, that’s Scott. Scott McCall. He’s the one who works at the vet. I’m the one who…” He actually has no idea how to finish that statement. “I’m his weird clumsy friend with ADD?”

“Aw, hell.” Finstock glares at him like this is somehow his fault. “Well, you’re here now. Want to see a squashed dog?”

What the hell, right?

Stiles steps inside.

 

***

 

Finstock’s house is kind of a disaster. It’s like part of it was decorated by a mad crazy sports fan, obviously, but the other part of it was decorated by someone possessed by the spirit of a sweet old grandma. There are _doilies_. Lace doilies. With lacrosse sticks embroidered on them.

That’s not normal, right? Stiles is pretty sure you can’t even find shit this weird on Etsy.

“It’s in the bathroom,” Finstock says, gesturing.

Stiles wonders, not for the first time, what he’s doing here. Did he really get out of bed to come and look at an injured dog, all because Finstock can’t tell the difference between him and Scott? And what sort of guy calls a high school student who works at a vet clinic instead of an actual certified vet? Because Stiles is pretty sure the only thing Scott has mastered working for Deaton is mopping up puddles of puppy pee.

Stiles heads for the bathroom. It’s the door at the end of the hall. Stiles has been in houses before where there are cutesy little signs with pretty patterns on them and “Bathroom” written in fancy cursive script.

There is no cutesy little sign on Finstock’s bathroom door. Instead, the word “BATHROOM” has been printed there in block capitals. Right on the door itself. In Sharpie.

Stiles squints at it for a moment.

_Why?_

Then he sighs and opens the door.

 

***

 

Holy shit.

Two things.

Firstly, the dog is not squashed at all. It’s very, very mobile, and very, very angry.

Also, it’s not a dog.

 

***

 

“That is _not_ a dog!” Stiles yelps, and pulls the door shut again. Behind it, he hears the scrabble of claws. And possibly the gnashing of jaws. There is also a lot of growling.

“What the hell are you talking about?” Finstock asks.

“That is a _wolf_!” Stiles exclaims.

Finstock snorts. “It’s a husky.”

“It has yellow eyes!”

“So?” Finstock shoots back.

“It’s black!”

“Why are you racist against huskies?”

“ _What_?”

Finstock’s left eye bulges. “I thought you were better than that, Bilinski.”

Stiles groans. “I’m not being racist against huskies. That is a _wolf_!”

“Whatever,” Finstock says. “Just fix it. It _likes_ you.”

Behind the bathroom door, the growling and scrabbling has subsided.

“I’m not a vet!” Stiles reminds him.

“Do not make me get my whistle, Bilinski.”

“Oh my god,” Stiles mutters. He’s in a fight with a crazy person. And there’s no way he can win. So, crazy person or injured wolf?

Stiles goes with option two.

It’s actually not as brave as it sounds.

Because he knows that wolf.

 

***

 

“Hey, Derek,” he whispers, closing the bathroom door.

The wolf bares its teeth in a growl that’s more pissed off at the world than pissed off at Stiles. Well, who can blame him? He got run over and abducted by a man who apparently uses bubble gum scented shower gel. And has a Sponge Bob toothbrush.

Stiles steps forward and reaches out. “You okay, big guy?”

Derek’s claws click on the tiles as he turns in a series of tight circles, but he lets Stiles card his fingers through his fur, looking for obvious injuries.

There are smears of blood on the bathroom tiles, and a small pool of it over by the bathmat, so Stiles knows he was hurt. He’s relieved that he can’t find any injuries now though. That means Derek is healing.

He runs his hand down Derek’s spine, not even registering the fact that Derek is shifting back into his human form until it’s way too late, and then it’s already happened, and Stiles is… oh mother of God. Stiles is stroking his very naked ass.

And what a fine ass it is too.

Stiles meeps and flails backward as Derek uncurls and stands up straight.

He glares at Stiles.

Stiles very pointedly does _not_ look at his dick.

Well, okay, once.

Fine, _twice_ , but it’s right _there_.

His mouth’s not watering. Shut up.

Derek glares again, then reaches past Stiles to grab the fluffy yellow towel hanging from the rail beside the shower. He tucks it around his hips.

Shame.

Wait, what?

Stiles forces his gaze upward again. “So,” he says awkwardly, “you got hit by Coach’s car?”

Derek huffs. “Apparently.”

“That’s gotta suck.” Stiles swallows, and wrinkles his nose. “Anyway, you’re gonna have to shift back, so I can get you out of here, okay? I’ll tell him I’m taking you to the vet or—”

Derek’s eyes widen in horror as the bathroom door flies open.

Stiles spins around to see Finstock standing in the doorway.

“Jesus Christ!” Finstock exclaims. “What the hell is this?”

 

***

 

This is bad.

This is really bad.

There is no way, in any reality, that Stiles can explain how a minute ago he was in the bathroom with a wolf—or husky, or whatever—and now he’s in the bathroom with a naked guy.

 _Ta da_?

 

***

 

“What the hell?” Finstock exclaims again. His face is pale and his eyes look like they’re about to pop right out of his skull. He points a shaking finger at Derek. “You do _not_ put your dick on another man’s towel, you understand? That violates every decent standard of polite society. _My_ dick has been on that towel, and I don’t care if you were raised by goddamn wolves, Hale, that does not give you the right to be my Eskimo dick brother!”

What?

Stiles’s jaw drops.

 _What_?

Derek looks just as stunned.

“Jesus Christ!” Finstock throws his hands up. “Fucking werewolves, seriously!”

He storms out of the bathroom.

 _What_?

 

***

 

Stiles finds Finstock in the kitchen, eating kibble. He really wishes he could focus on the kibble thing, because it’s sort of hilarious. But it’s not the craziest thing that’s happening here right now.

“Um, Coach?” he asks warily.

“What?” Finstock grizzles, crunching a fresh mouthful.

“How…”

“Spit it out, Bilinski. How do I know about werewolves?” He rolls his eyes. “Because I’ve lived in this town for twenty years, and I’m not blind?”

“You totally knew he wasn’t a dog!”

“So?” Finstock demands. “You gonna sue me or something?”

“What? No, why would you… _ugh_.”

“I have seen things in this town that would make your hair curl,” Finstock tells him, then looks critically at his buzzcut. “Well, maybe not yours. What’s even going on there? Is that supposed to be a style?”

“Can we not talk about my hair right now?” Stiles feels like he’s lost all control of this conversation. Then he realizes he never had any to begin with. “You knew he was a werewolf? And you called me to deal with it?”

Finstock shrugs and rummages in the bag for more kibble. “He’s your boyfriend, isn’t he? Hale?”

“What? _No_!”

“Then why else does he stalk you at practice?”

“He’s not my boyfriend!”

“Don’t get so defensive, Bilinski.” Finstock shrugs. “I might be straight, but I’d still seriously consider sacrificing my remaining testicle to get a piece of that.”

“You are certifiably _insane_!” Stiles hisses, turning around to stalk away.

“I remain undiagnosed!” Finstock shouts at him. “And tell your boyfriend he owes me a new goddamn  towel!”

“Insane!” Stiles yells back.

What is his fucking life, seriously?

 

***

 

He drives Derek home, and doesn’t at all stare his towel-clad ass as he climbs awkwardly out of the Jeep.

Well, okay, maybe once.

Fine.

Twice.

 

***

 

Two days later he and Derek are standing in the parking lot at the mall.

“I can’t believe we’re doing this,” Derek mutters.

“Shut up,” Stiles says, grabbing him by the hand and dragging him toward Bed Bath and Beyond. Maybe they have Sponge Bob towels?

Finstock would probably like those.


	13. Sleep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some fluff. 
> 
> Pairing: Derek/Stiles

Derek hasn’t slept for more than an hour or two at a time since Laura died. He’s running on anger alone, and he thinks that it’s probably enough. He shifts into his beta form when the weariness gets too bad to function—when he stumbles, when he sways, when he reaches for something and misses—and uses the wolf’s energy to supplement the weaker human’s. It’s not sustainable, probably, but what the hell does Derek care about that? Because the alternative…

The alternative is stopping, and taking a breath, and facing up to the fact that he’s alone, that his entire pack is dead, and everything that happened is his fault.

So, no.

No stopping. No thinking. No resting.

The first time it happens, Derek has gone to Stiles’s house to talk to him about Scott. Scott is a werewolf now, but he’s resisting everything that means including Derek— _especially_ Derek—and Derek knows the only way to get him to see reason is to get Stiles on side. And Stiles seems smart, and practical, even if he is more than a little weird and twitchy.

So Derek goes to his house.

The sheriff’s cruiser is in the drive, so Derek climbs in Stiles’s bedroom window. Which, by the way, is becoming a habit he should probably break sooner rather than later. Stiles’s bedroom door is shut, but the room is empty.

Derek can hear him babbling away to the sheriff downstairs. The sheriff doesn’t sound like he’s contributing too much. Just the occasional affirming noise that encourages Stiles to keep going.

Derek huffs, and glares around Stiles’s bedroom.

He taps the trackpad on Stiles’s laptop, and the screen opens. It’s password protected. Derek types “I TALK TOO MUCH”, but that’s not the password, apparently. Then he types “LYDIA” and isn’t too surprised when it doesn’t work. Stiles might be obsessed with the girl, but everyone knows it, and who’d be stupid enough to pick such an obvious password as the girl he’s crushing on?

There’s a half empty can of Coke on Stiles’s desk. Derek drinks it.

He sits down on Stiles’s bed and stares at the posters on the wall.

The bed is comfortable. The mattress is firm, but not too hard. Derek can’t remember the last time he lay on a mattress, so he lies down and stretches out. Takes a deep breath and fills his lungs with the scent of Stiles—grotty teenage boy, and stale sweat with an undertone of Bengay, but also something clean and earthy like petrichor—and promptly passes out.

 

***

 

It’s dark when he wakes up.

There’s a knitted woolen blanket thrown over him.

Derek pushes it off, mortified, and flees out the window.

 

***

 

It happens twice more before Derek admits it even to himself. Out of everywhere in Beacon Hills, Stiles’s bedroom is the only place he feels safe enough to drop his guard and sleep. Which makes no sense, because Stiles is a skinny teenage boy with no supernatural abilities—snark is _not_ a supernatural ability—and terrible taste in snacks. Derek knows this because somehow Stiles has taken to leaving packs of chips and unopened sodas on his desk. And, once, a cheese sandwich wrapped in tinfoil. Derek would have preferred roast beef, but he ate it anyway.

It’s…

It makes no sense at all, except on a purely primal level. For whatever reason Derek feels safe there, and now Stiles is providing for him. That’s enough for the wolf to apparently abandon all dignity and curl up like a puppy on Stiles’s bed.

So far, Stiles hasn’t said anything. The last time Derek approached him and Scott, Stiles had only stood back and watched. But his eyes were wider than usual, and his mouth was twisted up a little, and he smelled of worry. That was the day Derek found the cheese sandwich.

So now it’s this weird thing that happens. Derek climbs into Stiles’s bedroom window, eats the snacks Stiles has left for him, and goes to sleep to the sound of Stiles and his dad talking and laughing downstairs.

If he thinks about it—which he’s not going to—it feels a little bit like being a part of a pack again.

 

***

 

Sleeping better means he’s thinking better. It means he can function. It means he can actually get through a conversation with Scott without wolfing out because he’s got no patience for all his bullshit.

Turns out Scott’s not as hopeless as Derek thought.

 

***

 

When Derek wakes up it’s dark, and Stiles is hovering close to the edge of the bed like an anxious wraith.

“Oh, um, hi,” Stiles says. “It’s um, it’s almost midnight, and I really should go to bed, so…?”

Derek grunts at him and rolls over.

“ _Okaaay_ ,” Stiles mutters. “Plan B.”

A moment later he settles on the bed beside Derek, a strangely comforting presence.

Derek wakes up again at about three, when Stiles flails like a dog chasing dream-squirrels, and smacks him in the face.

He leaves via the window, like always.

 

***

 

Derek tries to stay away. He really does, but living in the burned-out husk of his family home is uncomfortable on every level, least of all practical. He finally breaks and heads back to Stiles’s house one evening, only to find the driveway empty of cars. Stiles’s window is unlatched though, so he lets himself in.

There’s a note on the desk: _Dad is on night shift, and I’m sleeping over at Scott’s. Help yourself._

Under the note is a folded towel, a bar of unopened soap, a disposable razor, and a clean pair of flannel pajamas that smell faintly of Sheriff Stilinski.

The water pressure in the shower is _incredible_.

 

***

 

Derek isn’t sure where he is when he wakes from the nightmare, a half-formed scream in his throat. But there’s a hand over his mouth, and a rapid heartbeat close by, and Stiles is warm and smells good and clean and _safe_.

“It’s okay,” Stiles whispers. “Shh, it’s okay. It’s okay, Derek. You’re okay. It’s not your fault. You’re okay.”

Derek lets Stiles lull him back to sleep.

It’s not until the next morning that Derek realizes that Stiles sounded practiced. He wonders how many times it’s happened before, and what he’s said in his sleep. He wonders how Stiles can ever bear touch him.

He doesn’t want to question it though. Not when he can finally sleep.

 

***

 

The snacks on the desk are slowly replaced with more substantial meals. Cold cuts and salads. Sandwiches with more on them than cheese. Stiles puts a small cooler on his desk too, with soda and water in it and, once, a chocolate pudding.

Derek has no idea why, but the chocolate pudding is the final straw. It just fucking breaks him. He eats it on the floor, leaning against Stiles’s wall, with tears running down his face.

 

***

 

It goes on for weeks, this weird thing that neither of them talk about. It goes on right up until Derek’s attacked by a rogue omega in the Preserve one evening, and Scott and Stiles help fight it off. Well, Scott helps. Stiles tries to hit it with his baseball bat and accidentally takes out a squirrel instead.

Then, when it’s done and Derek is holding a hand over his slowly-knitting stomach wound, Scott says, “Do you want a lift back to your place? Or to Deaton’s?”

Derek shakes his head.

Stiles rolls his eyes. “What? You’re going to walk the five miles into town looking like an extra from a slasher movie?”

Derek bares his teeth at him.

“Oh, bullshit,” Stiles says. “Don’t even front, Derek. Just get in the fucking Jeep and I’ll take you home, okay?”

Scott’s eyes go very, very wide.

“We’re having meatloaf,” Stiles tell him. “And you can eat at the table for once, like a human being.”

“Okay,” Derek says, limping toward the Jeep.

He’s too tired to fight right now.

He’s too tired later as well, when Stiles complains he’s stealing all the covers, and then curls up beside him and puts his head on Derek’s chest.

 

***

 

“Is this something we need to talk about?” Stiles asks in the middle of the night. His eyes are wide in the gloom.

“No.”

“Really?” Stiles’s eyes narrow. “It kind of seems like something we need to talk about.”

“It’s just a thing,” Derek tells him.

“Yes, but it is a wolf thing, or a Derek thing, or a totally cuddle-bro platonic thing?” Stiles swallows anxiously. “Or it is a you and me thing? An _us_ thing? I need some boundaries here, Derek. I don’t do well without boundaries!”

“I feel safe here,” Derek says. Saying the words is hard. “Safe enough to sleep. This is… this is the only place I sleep.”

“Oh,” Stiles says. His expression tightens. “Any port in a storm, right?”

He moves to roll away, and Derek reaches out and grabs him by the wrist. Tugs him close again.

“No,” he says. “Just you, Stiles. I don’t fucking know why, but it’s just you.”

Stiles sags against him, and rubs his cheek against Derek’s chest. “Okay then. Just so long as we’re clear.”

Derek stares at the ceiling for a moment, then huffs out a breath. “I don’t like cheese sandwiches.”

“Okay.” He can hear the smile in Stiles’s voice. “No more cheese sandwiches.”

“Okay.”

And that, Derek supposes, settles that.

 

***

 

The sheriff isn’t exactly happy the night he walks in on Stiles and Derek spooning in Stiles’s bed, but he’s not an unreasonable man. Derek somehow manages to walk away with the threat of arrest hanging over him, a demand he get a job, and an invitation to come around for dinner the next night and watch the sheriff clean his gun. Also, there had better not be any funny stuff until Stiles is eighteen, and who does Derek like for the world series?

Apparently he and Stiles are dating now.

Well, that settles that too.


	14. One Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ** NSFW ** 
> 
> Pairing: Stiles/Derek 
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: Non con because slavery, and very heavily implied past abuse. 
> 
> So I realised I hadn't written much to earn that explicit tag.  
> This is the result. 
> 
> I guess this is AU? Some world where werewolves are enslaved.

 

One night with the werewolf slave of his choice.

Jesus.

Stiles couldn’t offend them by refusing. The Argents were too powerful for that. Refusing a favor was an insult, and Gerard Argent didn’t like to be insulted.

But he should have picked a different slave.

Shouldn’t have picked one who already somehow mattered to him.

“Are you upset that I asked for you?” he asked Derek tentatively.

“No,” Derek murmured, dropping his gaze. “I mean, it doesn’t matter. Argent owns me.”

“I’m sorry,” Stiles said. His throat ached again, and he leaned forward and brushed his lips gently against Derek’s forehead.

Derek lifted his face, and then his lips were against Stiles’s. Stiles felt a rush of heat as Derek’s lips opened and his tongue swiped slowly against Stiles’s lower lip. He tried not to smile as he remembered: their first stolen kiss two weeks ago. This one was just as awkward. Derek was too clumsy; his teeth knocked against Stiles’s.

Sorry,” he murmured.

Stiles shared his breath. “It’s okay.”

He slipped a hand behind Derek’s head, guiding him gently as their mouths met again and opened. This time Derek’s tongue darted quickly against Stiles’s, and then drew back again. He was nervous, Stiles thought, or shy, or he just had very little experience kissing. He slipped his tongue into Derek’s mouth slowly, drawing sighs from Derek, and discovered the taste of his mouth. Derek was hesitant at first, not responding as Stiles’s tongue teased his own. Then he sighed again, and his tongue pressed back against Stiles’s urgently.

Stiles groaned, pulling Derek closer. Derek’s answering moan was beautiful. He could feel Derek’s erection pressing against his thigh.

“Will you…” Derek breathed. “Will you…”

“What do you want?” Stiles asked him, taking Derek’s lower lip between his teeth and worrying it gently.

Derek’s hands were in his hair. His eyes were so close that Stiles couldn’t see anything else. “Will you show me?”

Stiles drew back slightly, his heart thumping. “Do you want me to fuck you, Derek?”

Derek’s eyes seemed to fill his whole face. He bit his lip. “I think so. Yes.”

“Oh, Jesus, Derek,” Stiles breathed, leaning forward to kiss him again. “I want to.”

There was something sacrificial in the way Derek rose up onto his knees. His fingers shook as he pulled his shirt over his head, and Stiles couldn’t look away from the way his muscles rippled. He’d seen Derek naked before, but this was different. This was real. Derek wanted this. Derek trusted him enough to do this.

The mattress dipped as Derek shifted to the edge. He stood up, blushing, and unzipped his jeans. Stiles watched, breathing heavily as Derek hooked his thumbs on the waistband of his jeans, and of his boxers, and pushed them down.

God, he was beautiful. He was holding himself so nervously. He was shaking. Every muscle underneath that smooth, unblemished skin was tense. He looked awkward and uncomfortable. He cupped his hands in front of his cock, as though he was ashamed of his own desire, and looked at the floor.

“Should I… should I be on my hands and knees?” he managed.

Stiles stood up and put his hands on Derek’s shoulders. He drew him into an embrace. “Just relax, Derek. I want you on the bed. I want you to look at me.”

God, Derek was warm. His skin radiated heat. He felt like he was burning up. Stiles could feel him trembling.

“Lie on the bed, Derek,” Stiles whispered in his ear. “Wait for me.”

Derek made a small noise that might have been acquiescence, and Stiles released him. _Shit,_ he thought, _please tell me there is a condom and some lube somewhere in this room._

Bathroom. There had to be something in the bathroom.

Stiles could hardly bring himself to look at Derek as he headed for the small bathroom. He could see him in the corner of his eye, lying there. Were his eyes closed? Probably.

Stiles rattled around in the bathroom drawers until he found what he was looking for. Good on the Argents, right? They were prepared for every eventuality, the sick fucks. And yet here was Stiles, going through with it anyway, because he wanted Derek Hale more than enough to overlook his own twisted complicity here.

His hands shaking, Stiles returned to the bed.

Derek’s eyes were closed, and his hands were still covering his cock. His legs were parted slightly, and Stiles could see the tension in his thighs. He was struggling. His face was pale and his jaw was locked. His breath was shallow.

“Derek,” Stiles said softly. “Derek, it’s okay.”

Derek opened his eyes, and Stiles saw that he was afraid.

Stiles unfastened his jeans and kicked them off. He climbed onto the bed beside Derek, and sighed as he finally felt that skin on skin contact he needed. He slid a hand up Derek’s chest, catching a hardening nipple between his fingers and squeezing it gently. Derek jerked in surprise.

Stiles smiled at him, and leaned down to kiss him. “It’s okay. It’ll feel good, promise.”

Derek nodded. He flicked his tongue against his lips nervously. “Okay.”

“Shift up for a bit.” Stiles reached for a pillow, and adjusted it under Derek’s hips. Derek moaned, his face flushing as he realized how exposed he was. Stiles kissed him again, this time tracing his lips along Derek’s jaw and down his throat. He tasted the leather of the collar. “It’s okay.”

“Take it off,” Derek murmured. “Please, take it off me.”

“Yeah.” Stiles fumbled with the buckle of the collar. “Wrists too.”

He wanted this to be with Derek, just Derek. He didn’t want the slave. He never really had.

Derek shivered as Stiles unfastened the bands. “Can’t,” he managed. “Shouldn’t.”

“It’s okay,” Stiles said, leaning in to his throat again. He pressed his mouth against Derek’s pulse point, feeling the nervous flutter against his lips. “It’s okay.”

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been with someone who needed this much reassurance. He couldn’t remember the last time it had mattered to him. But Derek was special. Stiles shifted between Derek’s thighs, and Derek tensed.

“Kiss me, Derek,” Stiles said, leaning over him. He shivered as his cock pressed against Derek’s and Derek gasped.

Derek seemed to lose himself in the kiss. His arms came around Stiles, and his hands splayed against Stiles’s back. His hands were trembling, but they didn’t leave Stiles’s skin for a moment. They kissed, and Stiles fumbled with the bottle of lube. He managed to get a generous dollop into his palm, and rubbed his hands together to warm it. He didn’t want to spook Derek any more than necessary.

Derek was moaning now, and it wasn’t all desire. A lot of it was probably fear. His body stiffened as Stiles’s hand slipped down past his cock, past his balls, and pressed into the warm crease of his body. Stiles wished he could see what he was doing, but he wanted to offer Derek the security of his warmth. He didn’t want to leave him exposed. He went by feel instead, his fingers pressing gently against Derek’s tight opening. He slipped a fingertip inside, and Derek jerked.

“Oh, god!” His eyes were bright with panic. He swallowed, and began to shake his head. “Can’t. I can’t. Please! Please!”

Stiles didn’t know how much to push him. At what point did encouragement become coercion? He didn’t want to be like everyone else for Derek.

“Do you want me to stop?” he asked, watching the struggle across Derek’s face.

“I don’t know.” Derek’s eyes brimmed with tears. “Don’t want it to hurt.”

“Does this hurt?” Stiles slipped his finger deeper inside, twisting it against the tight wall of muscle.

“It’s uncomfortable,” Derek gasped. “It aches.”

“Relax for me,” Stiles said. “Just relax for me.”

He felt Derek’s muscles ease against his finger, even as Derek squeezed his eyes shut and frowned. Jesus, even his frown was gorgeous. He couldn’t look unattractive if he tried. Stiles kissed his throat, and Derek tilted his head back to allow him access. Stiles could feel his rapid pulse under his lips.

Stiles thought Derek would freak out when he withdrew his finger and then pushed two back inside. He felt Derek clench around him, and distracted him with a swipe of his tongue up to his earlobe. Stiles began to scissor his fingers gently, and then crooked them, looking for that sweet spot.

Derek jerked upwards, his eyes flashing open. “Oh, oh god!”

“Like that?” Stiles asked him, unable to stop a cocky grin spreading across his face.

Derek flushed, squirming underneath him. And then he smiled, biting his lip. “Yeah, I like that!”

Stiles’s grin widened. Jesus, there was a naughty boy inside Derek desperate to get out. He stretched him further, and Derek sighed and began to roll his hips. He was into it now. He liked it. Stiles worked his fingers for a few more minutes, and then shifted back onto his knees.

Derek’s face was uncertain then, just like Stiles had known it would be. He hugged his arms across his chest and looked at Stiles worriedly. The frown was back.

“I’ll be with you again soon, Derek,” Stiles said. “Have to get inside you first.”

“Okay,” Derek said, his eyes fixed on Stiles’s.

Stiles looked down at Derek’s cock. It was pressed hard up against his ridged abdomen. It was leaking clear precum. Stiles wanted to taste it, and he’d never resisted temptation before. He ducked down and licked the head of Derek’s cock. It leapt under his tongue, and Derek moaned.

Stiles rose up again, licking his lips. He reached for the condom packet, tore the foil open, and rolled the condom over his cock with trembling hands. Shit, he hoped he could last the distance with Derek. He wanted it to be good. It had to be good, for Derek.

Stiles ran his hands along the inside of Derek’s thighs, pushing them more fully open. Derek shifted uneasily, and Stiles cupped his balls and squeezed them gently. Derek moaned.

Stiles notched his cock up against Derek’s tight entrance, and leaned forward again. He took his weight on one hand, the other guiding his cock, and was gratified when Derek lifted his chin up for another kiss. Stiles drew Derek’s bottom lip into his mouth, and slowly pushed the head of his cock inside Derek’s body.

Derek groaned. There was a ragged edge in his voice now, and Stiles knew it had hurt him. He waited, his heart thumping, for Derek to tell him to stop.

Derek’s head dropped back onto the mattress. His eyes were closed. His chest rose and fell rapidly. “Keep going,” he murmured.

Stiles went as slowly as he’d ever gone with anyone, pushing in a fraction, drawing back, and pushing in again. He felt Derek’s muscles tense and flutter around his straining cock. He felt those muscles yield slowly, centimeter by centimeter. So fucking tight! Stiles wanted to push in up to the hilt, to set his own frantic pace, to find his own pleasure, but he couldn’t. It had to be good for Derek. And this felt amazing. The way Derek’s body opened to him so slowly, so tentatively. This was better than hard and fast. This was an act of trust.

Stiles’s body shook as the head of his cock pushed against Derek’s gland and Derek’s body arched against him. Derek held him tightly and breathed raggedly into his ear. “Fuck, Stiles. Oh. _Oh fuck_.”

Stiles groaned as he felt his balls come to rest against Derek’s ass. “I’m in, Derek,” he said.

Derek trembled.

Stiles shifted position. He stroked Derek’s cheek. “You okay?”

Derek’s blinked back tears. “Sorta hurts, Stiles.”

“I know, baby,” Stiles said, kissing his eyelids. “I know. This next bit is better though.”

He withdrew, feeling Derek’s muscles flutter, and then thrust slowly back in. He angled his hips so that his cock rode against Derek’s gland, and Derek gasped and shuddered. His hard cock throbbed between their sweaty bodies, and Stiles smiled.

“You ready, Derek?” he asked.

Derek slid his hands down Stiles’s side, finding his hips. “Do it again, Stiles. Fuck me.”

Stiles began to thrust more quickly. He groaned as he felt Derek’s legs wrap around him, pulling him closer. He wished he was closer; wished he could kiss him, but he was concentrating on angling his thrusts now, concentrating on finding a rhythm, concentrating on holding himself above Derek. He was trembling so much with the effort that if he leaned down for a kiss he thought he’d collapse on top of Derek.

Derek didn’t close his eyes now. He looked up at Stiles instead, his eyes wide with wonderment. Stiles thrust steadily, bringing those eyes in and out of focus as he shifted back and forth. They seemed preternaturally bright in Derek’s flushed face, and Stiles thought of the times he’d seen them glow bright blue, whenever Kate Argent riled the wolf up for her guests’ amusement. They’d caught him then and they caught him now. He couldn’t look away if he tried.

“Stiles,” Derek murmured, his fingers tightening on Stiles’s hips. His voice cracked as he raised his hips to meet Stiles’s thrusts. “Stiles!”

Stiles gaped for breath. “Derek!”

Derek arched up. He tightened his legs around Stiles. He whole body jerked and shuddered, and he came first. Stiles’s balls contracted as Derek shuddered and his hot cum lubricated their stomachs. Stiles snapped his hips quickly. A shiver ran up his spine and then he came as well, his cock pulsing inside Derek’s trembling flesh.

“Jesus!” Stiles croaked.

Derek’s eyes were wide. He struggled for breath.

Stiles withdrew. His hands were shaking so much he could hardly pull off the condom.

Derek looked at him as he rose. “Stiles?”

Stiles drew a shaking hand along Derek’s arm. “Be right back, Derek.”

Stiles headed into the bathroom, dropping the condom into the toilet and flushing it. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. He was pale, shaking, like it had been his first time. Man up, Stilinski, he told himself. You should be over the fucking moon.  

So what was it? Not regret. That same disquiet he’d felt before. The feeling that he and Derek were right together, but that nothing good could come of it.

He returned to the bed, slipping his arms around Derek. “Are you okay?”

Derek turned into the embrace. He was still shaking. He lifted his face and pressed his lips briefly against Stiles’s. “Thank you. I didn’t know it could be like that.”

 _I love you_ , Stiles wanted to say. He bit it back. Where the fuck did that come from? He’d never been the sort of person to blurt shit like that out, not at the height of passion and not in the afterglow. Derek was different, Derek was special, but Stiles couldn’t say it. Nothing good could come of it.

He smiled instead. “Don’t thank me. I wanted it as well.”

“But you didn’t have to make it good,” Derek said. He flushed.

Stiles tightened his arms around him, and breathed in the scent of him. He smelt like sweat and cum. “I like you. I wouldn’t hurt you.”

 _I like you._ It wasn’t the same as _I love you_ , but it was all he could offer. And by the sudden tears in Derek’s eyes, it was more than anyone had ever given him before.

Stiles angled his head and kissed Derek’s jaw. He didn’t want to see those tears. Why couldn’t they just lie together, sated and warm, and feel good? Why did he have to let the doubt in?

Derek pulled away first. “I have to go,” he said. He reached down for his collar and cuffs and began to fasten them.

Stiles let him leave, regret already coiling tight in his gut. One night wasn’t enough.

One night was already too much.


	15. Bad Omega

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fluff. Pure silly fluff. 
> 
> Pairing: Derek/Stiles

“And how much for a second date?” Talia Hale asks, flicking through the paperwork.

Stiles raises his eyebrows. “I’m not sure you understand the arrangement, Alpha Hale. There will be no second date.”

This is awkward. From the moment Talia Hale walked in, Stiles has been fighting the urge to leap up and flee. Okay, so she’s sitting between him and the door of the coffee shop, but there’s probably a back entrance through the kitchen, right? Because the thing is, Talia Hale knows him. And she doesn’t just know him, she also knows his dad. Because she is the mayor of their small town, and Stiles’s dad is the sheriff, and this is something Stiles would really hate for them to bring up in small talk before their weekly meetings at Town Hall.

_“Alpha Hale, how are things?”_

_“Good, Sheriff. Oh, by the way, did you know your son is as good as prostituting himself while he’s away at college?”_

Because while it’s not actually true, it also kind of is?

Stiles is an omega. Omegas still get looked at sideways for going out after dark without a chaperone. So setting up an online service where he’s paid to go on dates? It walks like a duck and it quacks like a duck but, really, it’s not a duck.

Because alphas are bound by just as much stupid tradition as omegas. But more than a few of them resist the hell out of the matches their parents make for them. Which is where Stiles comes in. Stiles is the alternate omega the parents present in the spirit of fairness. The one that suddenly makes their first choice look a hell of a lot better. The one that makes the alpha think they’ve just dodged a bullet.

Stiles is very, very good at his job.

“This all seems very…” Talia Hale trails off before she can finish that thought.

Mean? Sneaky? Underhanded? Stiles has heard it all before. But also, he has a student debt to repay.

“Is stacking the deck such a bad thing when it’s your child’s happiness at stake?” Stiles asks.

It’s blatant manipulation. Most of the parents Stiles deals with don’t give a damn about their child’s happiness. They only give a damn about the size of the dowry their chosen omega is bringing, the reputation of the omega’s family, and their future grandkids’ pedigrees. But the parents all love it when Stiles flatters their egos by pretending it’s not about those things at all.

“No,” Talia says with a smile. “I suppose it’s not.”

 

***

 

Stiles sits in his shitty apartment and eats his ramen and tries to think about which terrible life choices he’ll highlight on his upcoming date with Derek Hale. He knows Derek Hale in a kind of _‘holy Zeus that guy is burning like the sun and oh my god Scotty he’s looking this way—hide!_ ’ way, but he doesn’t _know_ him, know him. Derek is a few years older than Stiles. He was already in college by the time Stiles hit high school. Derek Hale probably vaguely knows who Stiles is because of their parents’ jobs, and because when they were growing up an awkward six years apart they sometimes had to go to the same boring community events, or fundraisers, or whatevers. From what Stiles knows about him, Derek is taciturn, kind of weirdly intensely glarey, and he wears clothes that cost more than Stiles’s Jeep.

So Stiles should probably go with his skinny jeans, his faded ACDC shirt, and his favorite Converse, right? The pair where the right sole is peeling, and sometimes makes a weird sucking noise when he walks.

He checks his email, and finds out that Talia has filled out the questionnaire.

Derek is currently doing his Masters in Comparative Literature. Which, comparatively boring, but beside the point. He has a totally unblemished record—both academic and criminal—and really doesn’t seem like the sort of guy who would refuse to marry the omega his parents chose. Like, really. Derek Hale seems about as rebellious and unpredictable as a pet rock. But Stiles supposes still waters run deep and all that.

He checks out the competition instead.

Kate Argent. Older than Derek, but totally hot. She’s got a degree in journalism, and a job as a reporter with a local TV news station. She’s from a rich family too, and looks like she’s just at the right age when those omega urges will kick in and she’ll want a bunch of gorgeous babies. Stiles actually can’t see why Talia Hale needs him to make Kate Argent look good. Because Kate Argent already looks pretty damn perfect.

Derek Hale’s an idiot if he’s stringing Kate along.

He needs to lock that down. And, once Stiles shows him how exactly non-green the grass is on the other side of the fence, it’ll be weddings bells and babies as far as the eye can see.

 

***

 

Stiles is meeting Derek for dinner at a fancy restaurant on Friday night. When Derek gets there, Stiles is arguing with the maître d' about the dress code, and whether or not Stiles passes muster. The maître d' looks absolutely horrified at Stiles’s terrible clothes, bad attitude, and foul language. They do not get a table in the restaurant.

Stiles is awesome with terrible first impressions.

Derek looks quietly mortified.

“So, anyway,” he says, grabbing Derek by the wrist and dragging him around the corner, “I really want some McNuggets. Will you buy me some McNuggets, Derek?”

First date at McDonalds. Classy as fuck.

Derek stares at Stiles warily under the glare of the bright lights, while around them teenagers chatter and laugh, younger kids have tantrums because they want a sundae _nowwww_ , and babies scream because fuck know why babies do anything.

“Aw,” Stiles says, making Bambi eyes at one particularly snotty specimen. “So how many kids do you want?”

Derek stares back wide-eyed. Stiles can almost taste his terror.

“I want five,” Stiles says, chewing on a fry with his mouth open. “Maybe six. Your family is rich enough for us to have six kids, right?”

Derek’s horrified gaze drops from his eyes, to his mouth, and moves back to his eyes again.

Stiles reaches over his own fries and steals another one of Derek’s. “Man, I’m so glad your mom gave me your number. Like, I really think we’ve got a connection. You feel it too, right?”

“Um,” Derek says.

“Like I know they’ve probably got you meeting a bunch of omegas because _tradition_ , but Derek, I really think you’re it for me.” Stiles sighs and smiles dreamily at him.

Derek looks terrified.

Kate Argent totally owes Stiles for this. He’ll drive Derek into her arms so quickly she’ll be walking down the aisle this time next month.

“I’m, ah, I am seeing someone else,” Derek offers at last.

“Uh huh,” Stiles says. He drags a fry through a puddle of ketchup. “Are you allergic to rats?”

“What?” Derek’s eyebrows do something complicated. “Do you have pet rats?”

“No,” Stiles says. “They’re not pets. But I have a cage of them to feed my snake.”

Fear of snakes is one of the top three most common phobias in the world. Fifty-six percent of people are terrified of snakes. And that doesn’t mean the other forty-four percent want to cuddle one.

“Oh my god,” Derek says under his breath. He clears his throat. "Um, do you want some more nuggets?”

“Aw, thank you!” Stiles gives him his best patented cutesy omega smile, complete with fluttering eyelashes. It’s sickening. He knows, because he’s practiced it in the mirror.

Derek flees to the counter to get more nuggets.

Seriously, Stiles will actually be surprised if he comes back. He’s probably escaping via the children’s playground at the moment.

Easiest two hundred bucks Stiles has ever made.

 

***

 

It all goes horribly wrong when Derek insists on walking Stiles back to his apartment. Because of course omegas can’t be trusted to be out alone after dark. They’ll probably get snatched off the street by some evil alpha because they’re too silly and too weak to know how to take care of themselves. Well, Stiles thinks that’s bullshit. And so does his can of mace.

Anyway, they’re almost at Stiles’s apartment—and Stiles has spent the whole walk talking about the most inane, annoying, and awful things he can think of—when the screech of brakes on the road behind them alerts them to the fact that something’s about to happen.

What happens is a car plows into a bus shelter about half a block behind them.

What happens is Stiles hears a kid screaming, and runs right toward it.

 

***

 

“Hey,” he says, poking his head in the car. The driver, the mom, is out cold. Stiles is checking for her pulse and grinning at the kid strapped into the car seat in the back at the same time. “What’s your name, sweetie?”

“Nicki,” the little girl hiccups.

“Really?” Stiles finds a pulse, thank fuck. “I was just telling my friend before that I think Nicki is the prettiest name in the whole world!”

The girl’s bottom lip wobbles as she tries not to cry. “Is Mommy okay?”

“Oh, yeah,” Stiles tells her. “She just bumped her head. But the ambulance will be here soon, and they’ll take you guys to the hospital and give your mommy some medicine to make her better, okay?”

Nicki nods bravely.

“Stiles,” Derek says in a low voice from behind him. “There’s fuel leaking everywhere.”

They aren’t the only people trying to help. On the other side of the car, a guy is trying to open Nicki’s door, but it’s stuck fast. He meets Stiles’s gaze over the roof of the car when Stiles straightens up to see if he can see an ambulance yet.

“Oh, hell,” the guy says, and that’s when Stiles sees smoke curling from under the hood of the car.

Stiles dives back into the car and reaches across the mom’s lap to unclip her belt. “Get her out of here! Derek, get her out!”

Derek and the other guy hurry to help, while someone else goes yelling for a fire extinguisher.

Then Stiles bolts around the car and climbs into the front passenger seat. Squeezes into the back seat and starts unfastening Nicki’s harness. He can smell smoke, and fuel. He’s aware that Derek and the guy have got the mom out. Then Derek’s trying to wrench Nicki’s door open, and it’s still jammed.

Stiles tries the door on the other side. Locked, or stuck, or something.

“Nicki, let’s get out Mommy’s door, okay?”

Afterwards, Stiles will maintain the ball of fire didn’t come anywhere near him and they were out in plenty of time.

His singed eyebrows and burned hands tell a slightly scarier story.

 

***

 

“You’re not an idiot,” Derek tells him at the hospital while he’s getting his hands bandaged.

“Um, thanks, I think,” Stiles says.

“I mean, you pretended to be an idiot,” Derek tells him. “On our date.”

“Oh, fuck my life,” Stiles mumbles. “Your mom is going to want her money back.”

Derek quirks an eyebrow at him. “Excuse me?”

The lucky bastard still has eyebrows.

 

***

 

“Stiles,” Talia Hale says the following weekend as she welcomes him into her home in Beacon Hills. “How nice to see you again. Would this be a second date?”

“You,” Stiles says in an undertone, “are _evil_! You didn’t want me to make Kate look good! You wanted Derek to dump her! You totally played me!”

Talia pats him on the shoulder and gives him a smile.

“Tell the truth,” Stiles says. “Did you cut that poor woman’s brake line?”

Talia chokes out a burst of shocked laughter. “I’m not a supervillian, Stiles!”

“Are you sure?” Stiles asks her. “You’re kind of giving me that vibe right now, just a little bit.”

“Oh, honey, I know.” Talia’s smile broadens. “But is stacking the deck really such a bad thing when your child’s happiness is at stake?”

 


	16. Spectrum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pairing: none, really.  
> A kidfic with autistic Stiles. 
> 
> For @jewicer on Tumblr, who asked for autistic Stiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note, I'm not an expert on autism. What I've written here has been cobbled together from other people's experiences. It's also written from John's POV, and he's a man who is very much struggling with the challenges of raising an autistic child. So at times he is confused, upset, and even resentful. That does not reflect on how I view autism, or even how I think John does. He's just in a very bad place for a lot of this story.

It’s a spectrum, the doctors tell them, and it’s not long before John really starts to hate the word. So goddamn imprecise. He hates that nobody can tell them exactly what’s wrong, exactly what to expect, and exactly how to fix it. This imprecise, undefined, nebulous _thing_.

Autism is a spectrum.

Stiles hits some of his milestones when he should. Others he seems like he’ll never hit.

 _Stiles_.

His first word. He’s twenty-three months old when he says it. When Claudia calls him by his name, and he corrects her: _Stiles_.

And this strange, sick feeling rises up inside John, because this is their kid, figuring out he’s a part of their world, _interacting_ for once like he belongs here, not like he’s some observer from behind a thick pane of glass, but it doesn’t feel right. Doesn’t feel _normal_ to have a kid do that. His first word, and it’s dispassionate, a monotone, robotic. Something in John wants to grab him and shake him and demand to know if there’s someone in there.

Claudia is delighted. Tries to hug him. He goes stiff as a board and then shrieks and shrieks and shrieks until she lets him go.

“Stiles,” John says later, trying to get his kid to look him in the eye. “Stiles?”

Stiles’s dark gaze slides over him like he’s not even there.

It’s hard to love a kid who won’t look at you, who hates to be touched. It’s hard to look at him without thinking of what he was _supposed_ to be.

It gets a little easier when he gets older. When he starts visiting a behavioral therapist. He learns to talk a little more. Learns to ask for things, to interact. The therapy isn’t just for Stiles, either. John and Claudia learn how to deal with him too. Learn how to _work_ with him.

And every milestone after that is huge.

It’s Stiles learning to ride a tricycle, and letting John hold him while he does.

It’s a whole day without an unfathomable tantrum.

It’s starting kindergarten in a regular class.

It’s when he starts to stick his head out of the shelter of his hoodie more and more.

It’s when he’s five and finally calls John ‘Daddy’, like he’s finally figured out how they all slot together, what it means.

Stiles is a smart kid. Beyond smart. The things he’s interested in aren’t just interests. They’re obsessions. By the time he’s seven he’s reading at an adult level. He keeps notebooks full of detailed research about wolves in his room. Works on them every day.

“Why wolves?” John asks at first, but he knows it could have been anything. He’s more than happy to listen to Stiles talk about the migratory patterns of timber wolves for hours.

When John’s working all the overtime he can to pay for Stiles’s therapy, Claudia takes Stiles to the local wolf sanctuary. She tells John later that Stiles blew everyone away with his encyclopedic knowledge of their work. They go back regularly. John tells himself that one day he’ll make time to go too, but work gets in the way. And then everything goes to shit.

When Stiles is eight, Claudia gets sick.

Maybe they would have got her diagnosed earlier, John thinks, if it wasn’t so easy to brush off so many of those first symptoms as fatigue, or stress, or part of the ongoing battle of dealing with a kid like Stiles day in, day out.

Months later when she’s screaming at John that Stiles is trying to kill her, that he’s a monster, it doesn’t take a goddamn genius to work out where that particular delusion came from.

“Claudia, he’s a _kid_ ,” John tells her, his tone pleading.

And Stiles just stares at his mom, dark eyes wide, with absolutely no emotion showing on his pale face.

It’s impossible for John to know how Stiles processes things. If he even does. Sometimes John hates him for being this way. So closed off. So emotionless. So goddamn unreachable. Sometimes John envies it.

After Claudia’s death, John drinks too much. Because why the hell not? He could barely do this with Claudia by his side. God knows he can’t do it without her.

The drinking thing goes on for months.

John figures nobody notices.

He wakes up on the couch one night to find Stiles sitting on the floor watching him with his big, dark eyes. Stiles has covered John in the wolf comforter from his bed. It breaks John’s heart that he can’t hug his son.

“Love you, kiddo,” he says instead.

Stiles hums a little under his breath, his gaze sliding right off John.

“I’m sorry, Stiles,” John says. “Kid, I’m so sorry.”

He resolves in that moment to do whatever he can to make it up to his son.

 

***

 

“Sheriff,” Talia Hale says as she meets them at the gate. “Hello, Stiles.”

“I want to see the wolves,” Stiles says, looking at the ground.

“Hold your horses, kid,” John tells him, taking out his wallet.

Talia waves his money away. “We don’t charge Stiles, Sheriff. Stiles is always welcome to visit.”

John can see why Claudia liked coming out here. It’s nice. The sanctuary is in the middle of the Preserve. The air is clean and cool and smells of pine. When John hears a wolf howl from somewhere very close by, the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

“Holy crap,” he says in a low voice.

Talia laughs. “Wait until you see them up close!”

Stiles is already trotting eagerly toward the enclosures, like he’s followed the path from the parking lot a hundred times. He has, probably, with Claudia.

“Derek’s in the hospital, Stiles!” Talia calls, and Stiles scurries ahead.

None of that means anything to John, but it doesn’t take long for him to realize they’ve bypassed the enclosures built for the viewing public, with their signs about food chains and ecology and wolf anatomy, and have entered an area where the buildings are a lot more utilitarian. They pass more than one “Staff Only Beyond This Point” sign, and catch up with Stiles again where he’s rattling the handle on a locked door.

The door is opened by a teenage boy with dark hair and a scowl. John figures this is Derek. The scowl lifts as he sees who it is. “Hi, Stiles.”

“Wolf,” Stiles says, craning his head to see past Derek.

Derek steps aside and lets him in.

When John and Talia step inside, it takes John a little while for his eyes to adjust to the light. And a little while longer than that for his brain to adjust to what he’s seeing. This is the hospital, clearly. It’s full of buckets and scrubbing brushes and clipboards hanging on nails from the wall. It smells of antiseptic, and also raw meat, and something a little acrid, a little sharp, that can only be the smell of the massive gray timber wolf that’s lying on a pile of old blankets in the corner of the room, chin resting on its paws like it’s just a normal fucking dog.

“Holy shit,” John says, because Stiles and Derek are approaching the wolf, and then Stiles is sitting down on the concrete beside the wolf’s blankets, stretching out a very thin, very fragile little hand to—

John’s heart skips a beat.

—to _touch_ the wolf.

Derek hunches down beside him, saying something in a quiet voice. He keeps a close watch on Stiles, and on the wolf, but all John can see is his kid, his kid reaching out to touch something.

“He’s okay,” Talia says in a low voice. “Luna’s very good with Stiles. Very patient.”

Stiles is running his hand over the wolf’s flank, mouth hanging open a little as he listens to whatever Derek is telling him. Even nods to show his understanding.

“We’ve had her since she was a cub,” Talia tells John. “She’s very old now. On her last legs, we think. We keep her in here at night so she’s warm and comfortable, but it’s got to the point where she likes to stay in during the day too.”

“She’s…” John stares at the wolf in astonishment. “She’s letting him touch her.”

“Luna’s about as close to domesticated as a wolf will get,” Talia tells him. “The others, we keep in as natural an environment as possible. But when we got her, Luna had three broken legs from getting run over by a car, and all sorts of complications. We had to care for her around the clock, so we took her into the house. We became her pack.”

John watches silently, his throat aching, as Stiles gently pets the wolf’s flank.

“Okay,” Derek says at last. “Let’s let her have some rest now.”

There’s no tantrum from Stiles. Just a slow nod, and then he’s climbing to his feet and wiping his hands on his jeans.

“Dad,” he says. “It’s a wolf.”

“Yeah, kiddo,” John says, smiling. “What sort of wolf is she?”

And Stiles opens his mouth and talks and talks and talks.

 

***

 

They stay for dinner with the Hales. It’s a rowdy group. Talia and her husband James, her brother Peter and his wife, and a bunch of kids ranging from almost grown all the way down to spitty toddler. They’re noisy, but Stiles doesn’t seem to mind. He interjects occasionally, and always about wolves.

“Stiles knows everything about wolves!” one of the little kids exclaims. “He knows more than Mom.”

Talia laughs.

“And Derek,” Stiles adds. “More than Derek.”

Derek rolls his eyes, but the expression is one of fondness rather than true exasperation. He pokes Stiles in the shoulder, and John expects Stiles to shriek, or to retreat inside his hoodie, or to just not react at all. He doesn’t expect Stiles to smile.

No wonder Claudia always brought him here.

Later, when the table is cleared and the dishes are washed and Stiles is chewing on the strings of his hoodie the way he does when he gets tired, John thanks Talia for inviting them into her home.

“I meant what I said,” she tells him. “Stiles is always welcome here. You too, John.”

“Thank you,” he says again. He reaches down and puts a hand on Stiles’s shoulder. Squeezes gently, and Stiles doesn’t pull away. “Thank you for everything.”

There are no easy answers. There are no magic fixes. What seems like a miracle right now will vanish the second Stiles has a tantrum over something incomprehensible. But, for the first time since Claudia’s death, John doesn’t feel like he’s in this alone.

And that’s a miracle he can hold onto.


	17. Roses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pairing: Stiles/Peter 
> 
> I wrote this as part of a 5 minute fiction challenge on Tumblr, which is why it's so, so short.

On Valentines Day, Stiles wakes up to a heart on his pillow.

A human heart.

He gazes at it for a long moment, waiting for panic and fear to follow the realization of exactly what it is he’s looking at.

They don’t.

Instead he feels warmth spread though him as he slowly blinks awake. He becomes more aware of his surroundings. The apartment is airy and clean. Even the heart has been drained of blood, although a little has seeped into the pillowcase and crusted there.

In the bathroom, the shower is running.

Stiles stretches, mindful of his still-healing injuries, and climbs out of bed. He walks to the bathroom door, and opens it. The steam is warm, and clings to his skin in tiny pinpricks of moisture.

Last night…

Last night was unexpected, but Stiles can’t bring himself to regret it. Not yet, and maybe not ever.

Last night he’d been angry, upset, fucking _invisible_ , and then a cold blue gaze had caught his and a voice low with barely-repressed anger had said, “What _happened_ to you?”

It had all spilled out then. The basement, with Gerard Argent. The questions, the torture, the way the man had grinned at him like a skull as he’d hurt him. Stiles hadn’t told anyone, right up until last night.

He steps into the bathroom, and wonders if he’s imagining the faint scent of blood.

The shower curtain rattles open, and Peter smirks at him.

“Roses are more traditional,” Stiles tells him. “But fuck tradition.”

Peter’s smirk transforms into a genuine smile, and he holds out his hand.

Stiles takes it, and steps into the shower with him.


	18. Peter and the Pirate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pairing: Peter/Stiles 
> 
> Ridiculous pirate fluff for @theclassicvinyldragon. I went a little off prompt, but that's pretty much my life motto.

“Pirates?” he can almost hear Talia ask mockingly in his head. “How did you manage to get abducted by _pirates_?”

None of this, Peter Hale would like stated for the record, is his fault.

In fact, all of this is Talia’s fault. She’s the one who arranged his marriage to Christopher Argent. Sight unseen, thanks very much. She’s the one who arranged Peter’s passage on the ship that would take him across the sound to the Argents' lands, even though he could have gone overland and she knows he gets seasick. Well, she knows he _claims_ to get seasick which is almost the same thing.

“No, Peter,” she’d said. “I’m not going to let you give your escort the slip and head for hills, just like last time.”

What? One little wrong turn, and suddenly it’s his fault he was wandering the countryside for eight entire months and only remembered his way home when Deucalion got sick of waiting and married someone else? It was a _coincidence_.

Talia does not believe in coincidences.

In fact, she’s probably going to think he paid the pirates to abduct him. Which is ridiculous, because pirates are not only bloodthirsty, untrustworthy and vicious, but it turns out they are also _terrible_ hosts.

Peter sighs and flops around on the bed, trying to find a more comfortable position.

Okay, so he’s not exactly in chains or anything. In fact, the cabin is much more spacious than he anticipated. It’s almost _nice_. Almost. It’s also clearly already inhabited. Peter’s already been though every drawer and chest he can raid, and he’s currently got a knife tucked up his sleeve, thanks very much. The cabin also has a cat.

A _cat_.

It’s seated imperiously on the pillow beside the one Peter is using, glaring at him.

Peter wants to stab it.

“Oh, fuck off,” he tells it, and it lashes its tail.

“Now, that’s no way for a gentleman to speak to a lady,” someone announces, and Peter almost lurches right off the bed.

There’s a young man leaning in the cabin doorway. He doesn’t look much older than a boy, really. He has ridiculous scruffy hair and is barefoot. Probably a cabin boy.

“That beast is no lady,” Peter tells the boy.

“And you, I suspect,” the boy says, dark eyes lingering speculatively on Peter in a way that sends heat coursing through him, “are no gentleman.”

So it’s true what they say about the sea-faring traditions of rum, sodomy and the lash then. Peter really only likes two of those things.

Rum is disgusting.

“I am the Marquess of Beacon Hills,” Peter says. “I demand you release me at once.”

“No,” the boy shoots back.

“Then I demand you take me to see your captain,” Peter says. “I refuse to speak to some lackey.”

“Um, rude,” the boy says. “ _I_ am the captain.”

“You?” Peter asks. “You’re _twelve_.”

The boy scowls at him. “Firstly, I am _nineteen_. And secondly, I’m not just the captain, I’m the pirate _king_.”

Peter laughs so hard he almost dies. “Oh, a king! You’re the pirate king are you? All one hundred and forty pounds of you!”

“Stop laughing!” the boy exclaims, outraged.

“I’m not laughing,” Peter tells him, laughing. “I’m trembling in fear!”

Even the cat appears amused.

The boy stalks forward into the cabin, slamming the door shut behind him. “Listen, you arrogant fuck, I _am_ the pirate king, and you should probably remember that, since I’m also the guy who can slit your throat and throw you overboard!”

“Oh, but if you did that, how would you get any ransom money?” Peter asks him. “And you probably need it to buy tin soldiers and candy, and maybe a nice little music box to play you lullabies at night.”

The change in the boy is magnificent. His eyes flash with anger. He bares his teeth. He leaps forward, one hand going straight for Peter’s throat. “I _told_ you—”

Peter grabs for his other arm, uses his own momentum against him, and flips him onto the mattress. He’s straddling him in moments, the point of the stolen knife digging into the boy’s throat. The boy’s eyes are wide with sudden fear.

“Oh, now this is interesting,” Peter says, all traces of his smile gone. “Who’s the hostage now, sweetheart?”

Because, really, a man doesn’t travel alone in the countryside for eight months without picking up a few tricks from the thieves, beggars and cutthroats he meets along the way.

The boy struggles and bucks underneath him. “Let me go!”

The cat looks bored.

“Here’s the deal, my little pirate king,” Peter smirks. “You give the order to turn this ship back toward Beacon Hills, you release my guards to me, and maybe, just maybe, I won’t kill you.”

“You’ll never get off this ship alive!” the boy snarls.

Peter digs the tip of the knife into that pale, flushed skin until it threatens to break. “Oh, but I think I will.” Peter uses his spare hand to untie his cravat. It’s going to look lovely binding the boy’s wrists. “I have a habit of landing on my feet.”

The cat looks grudgingly impressed.

 

***

 

“Oh my god!” a frantic kid exclaims when Peter has the boy trussed up to his satisfaction, and has allowed him to call for a member of the crew. “Stiles! What the hell happened?”

The pirate king—Stiles—glowers. “This asshole got the drop on me, Scott. Obviously.”

Peter smiles benignly at Scott, and taps the knife against Stiles’s collarbone.

“What should I do?” Scott asks helplessly.

“Release his guards,” Stiles sighs. “And turn the ship back to Beacons Hills.”

 

***

 

Stiles is a worse hostage than Peter.

And dear god, he can _talk_.

At first Peter assumes the boy is trying to drive him to distraction, and force him to make an error. Then he realizes it’s just because he’s as annoying as all fuck.

 

***

 

“So why were you going to the Argents anyway?” Stiles asks on their second night.

Peter selects a piece of apple from the tray on the table, and holds it up to Stiles so he can eat. Stiles glares at him, but opens his mouth.

“To be married,” Peter says. “To Christopher Argent.”

“Ew,” Stiles says.

“Why? Is he hideous?”

“No.” Stiles chews and swallows. “He’s just kind of a dick. He hates us because his daughter ran away with Scott.”

“Oh,” Peter says, raising his eyebrows. “I can’t imagine why an actual real life prince would in any way object to his only child eloping with a lowly pirate.”

Stiles glares. “You’re kind of a dick too.”

“Guilty,” Peter smirks, and pops another piece of apple into Stiles’s lovely mouth.

 

***

 

Peter has five guards. Between them, they make sure the pirates can’t stage a mutiny (an anti-mutiny?) and rescue Stiles. They keep the passage to the cabin blocked. And they have orders that if they are attacked, they’re to retreat to the cabin and hold the doors to give Peter a chance to kill Stiles.

By the third day, it’s increasingly clear that nobody wants things to pan out that way.

“They seem okay,” Boyd says thoughtfully. “For pirates.”

Peter casts an almost-fond glance at Stiles, who’s snoring on the bed and twitching like a puppy dreaming of squirrels.

“Don’t let your guard down,” Peter warns him.

“Of course not, sir.” Boyd shrugs. “But they haven’t even tried to poison us or anything.”

“Amateurs,” Peter comments.

Boyd nods.

 

***

 

“Good morning,” the pretty brunette says as she places a tray of breakfast down for Peter and Stiles.

“Hey, Ally,” Stiles says, snorting awake. “How are things? Has Scott broken my ship yet?”

“Things are fine,” the girl says, and Peter realizes that this is Allison Argent. In another lifetime—one where he hadn’t been kidnapped and she’d made better romantic choices and not been disowned—she would have been his stepdaughter. “We’re about half a day out from Beacon Hills, and the only other ships we’ve seen have been merchants.”

Stiles sighs. “Merchants? And we can’t even rob them!”

“There, there, sweetheart,” Peter tells him consolingly. “As soon as I’m out of your hair, you can rape and pillage to your little heart’s content.”

“Um, firstly, we don’t _rape_ ,” Stiles says. “That shit is messed up. And secondly, you’re totally fucking with my week here, you know.”

“Oh, I do apologize,” Peter lies, scratching the cat under the chin.

Stiles glares at him.

Peter’s going to miss that glare.

 

***

 

They’re still a few hours out of Beacon Hills when they’re attacked.

“It’s Duchess Talia’s fleet!” Scott exclaims when he brings the news. “And the Argents!”

The ship shudders as a canon ball tears through it.

Peter sighs, and straightens his jacket, and then hauls Stiles to his feet and drags him up onto the deck.

The air would be fresh and bracing, he suspects, if not for the fact it’s full of smoke.

“Hold your fire!” Peter yells at the pirates, heading for the front of the ship.

“What the hell are you doing?” Stiles gasps.

“I’m going to climb up onto that little deck at the front, show my sister and my fiancé that I’m alive, and stop the fucking shooting!” Peter snaps.

“You’ll get yourself killed!” Stiles exclaims. “Also, the little front deck is called a fo’c’sle!”

Which is stupid. The names of things on pirate ships are stupid.

Peter rolls his eyes and strides through the smoke toward the little front deck.

 

***

 

“I got kidnapped by pirates,” Peter tells Talia. “This is their king, Stiles.”

“Good lord,” she says, looking at him, then Stiles, then him, then back to Stiles. “In what universe is this ragamuffin a pirate king?”

“Why does everyone keep _doing_ that?” Stiles mutters.

“It’s your fashion sense, sweetheart,” Peter tells him. “You have none. Now be a quiet little mouse and let the grown ups talk.”

Stiles glowers.

He turns to Chris. “And while I do apologize for my tardiness, my lord, I’m afraid that in these past four days I have become considerably less marriageable.”

“What?” Chris asks.

“What?” Talia asks.

Stiles opens his mouth to ask the same thing, and Peter elbows him.

“Yes,” he sighs. “I’m totally ruined now. Tainted, as it were. My reputation forever soiled. I am no longer fit to be the husband of a prince. I only hope that I can find a way to live with the heavy burden of my regret.”

Talia rolls her eyes.

So does Chris Argent.

Apparently Peter is as transparent as water.

“And, naturally, I throw myself on your mercy, dear sister,” Peter says. “Please don’t kill my beloved.”

Stiles gives him some serious side-eye.

“You’re a fucking nightmare, Peter,” Talia says. “Fine. Go and be married to a pirate king, and turn your back on all your responsibilities. See if I care!”

Clearly she does care, though. She always has. Peter’s still going to be invited home for Christmas. And birthdays. And every holiday in between. The reason he exasperates Talia so very much, Peter knows, is precisely because she can’t hate him, however hard she tries.

And she’s been trying so hard since the day he was born.

“Duchess Talia might not be willing to string these criminals up,” Christopher Argent growls. “But give me one good reason not to!”

And right on cue, here’s Allison.

“Dad,” she says. “I’m pregnant with Scott’s baby.”

Icy silence.

“Congratulations?” Peter suggests.

 

***

 

“You planned this whole thing,” Stiles accuses Peter later.

“Nonsense,” Peter says. “I’m blameless.”

“You’re _evil_!”

“Says the _pirate_?”

“Are you going to throw that back in my face every time?” Stiles demands, glaring at Peter.

“Yes,” Peter tells him. “Now shut the hell up and come back to bed. I owe you a blowjob.”

Stiles mutters something about Peter owing him a hell of a lot more than that, but he crawls back under the covers anyway.

The cat, watching the whole thing from her perch on the chest of drawers, looks as unimpressed as always.


	19. Fox in the Henhouse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pairing: Peter/Stiles
> 
> Mostly fluff, apart from the poor chickens.

All things considered, there are probably nicer ways to wake in the morning than to the screams and wails of between twenty and thirty traumatized eight-year-olds.

God-fucking-dammit.

What now?

Peter rolls out of bed, hauls his jeans on, and stumbles out the front door of the house just in time to see the herd of weeping children being ushered back toward the yellow bus that’s waiting for them out on the road. Their teacher is bringing up the rear, glaring at Derek as he stumbles along beside her looking apologetic and saying something that clearly she’s not prepared to listen to.

Peter groans and leans in the doorway of the small house.

“Derek?” he asks when the bus takes off and his nephew drags his sorry ass back to the little house. “What the fuck was that?”

 

***

 

Three years ago, Peter was a lawyer. He supposes that technically he still is a lawyer, but fuck that. He’s done with that bullshit. When he found himself sitting in his office one day, gazing out over the glittering cityscape and contemplating slitting his own wrists with his fancy letter opener, he’d figured it was time to get out.

Besides, it’d take more than a silver letter opener to kill himself, what with his werewolf healing.

That very same day he’d received an email from his nephew Derek, who had just graduated college and decided to return home to Beacon Hills to make his own cheese. And he wanted Peter to invest, since everyone else in the family thought he was fucking crazy. So did Peter, actually, but it just so happened that he needed some fucking crazy in his life, so not only had he invested in Derek’s business, he’d headed home to help run it.

From lawyer to farmer, in one easy step.

Because of course Derek’s cheese has to come from his own cows and goats and even sheep. It’s taken a few years to get everything up and running, but they’re turning a profit at last. They employ thirty people, run factory tours and, as a little bonus for the tourists and the local elementary school children, have a sort of a petting zoo out the front where they keep some lambs, a few poddy calves, some goatlets— _kids_ , dammit. Why can Peter never remember that? Oh, because he is a terrible famer, as Derek likes to remind him—and some ducks and chickens.

_Chickens._

“Again?” he asks as he follows Derek toward the little petting zoo. “Seriously?”

Derek sighs and nods.

Peter pinches the bridge of his nose. “Next time, can someone check it’s not the Texas Chainsaw Massacre in there _before_ the kids arrive?”

Peter might be a terrible famer, but he’s damn good at publicity and advertising and schmoozing at trade shows and generally making sure that Hale Organic Cheeses has the best fucking reputation in the area. And that good reputation is going to be really difficult to hold onto if they continue to traumatize innocent children.

Derek nods worriedly.

“Go, Peter says, and waves him away. “Go and do the things you do.”

“What are you going to do?” Derek asks him.

Peter narrows his gaze. “I’m going to _kill_ him.”

 

***

 

Sheriff John Stilinksi lives two miles away from the Hale property, on the outskirts of town, in a pleasant street that backs onto the woods. He’s a nice guy. Peter actually really likes him. But, when he pounds on the door until it opens, and Stilinski takes one look at him and just sighs, he knows they’d both rather not be having this conversation again.

“What do I owe you?” Stilinski asks.

“One hundred and twenty-five dollars,” Peter tells him. “And if the school tries to sue us, I’ll be sure to pass on your contact details.”

“Oh, Jesus,” Stilinski mutters, and throws up his hands. “I’m done. I’m fucking _done_ with this. He’s upstairs. Have at him.”

Well now, there’s an interesting turn of phrase.

Peter heads up the stairs, following the boy’s scent to his bedroom. He slams the door open, and the boy in the bed squawks and somehow ends up in a tangled mess of limbs and comforter on the floor.

“What are you doing in my bedroom?” he demands.

“I’m here to murder you,” Peter tells him, and shows his teeth in a sinister smile.

“Wh-what?” The boy’s eyes are owlishly wide.

“Get dressed,” Peter tells him. “You’ve got a milking shed to muck out.”

 

***

 

The first time it happened, Peter couldn’t figure out why. The fence was still secure, and the gate was still latched, and unless the chickens inside had all somehow exploded at the same time…

The second time it happened, Peter set up a camera.

The third time, he saw the skinny little fox nose its way up to the wire, snuffle around excitedly for a few minutes, and then shift into a very lithe, very naked boy, whose long, clever fingers made short work of the latch.

 

***

 

“He gets it from his mother,” Stilinski says while Peter waits downstairs for Stiles to get dressed. “The fox thing, not the eating live chickens thing. Hell, shifters weren’t out when we were dating. She only told me a few weeks before she passed that she thought it might be something he’d inherited. Came as a hell of a shock.”

Peter can imagine.

“He’s a late bloomer, they tell me,” Stilinski says with a wry shake of his head. “Most kids, they start to shift around puberty. I thought maybe it’d skipped him, that he was human. He’s winging it, you know? There aren’t any other fox shifters in town, and I can’t exactly help him.”

Peter hears the boy approach before his father does.

He turns and finds him lurking in the doorway anxiously.

“Have him back by dinner,” the sheriff says, giving his son a stern look.

“Will do,” Peter says, and the boy follows him unwillingly to his car.

 

***

 

“I’m actually allergic to cows,” the boy—Stiles—says in the car, his leg jiggling. He picks at a loose thread in the frayed knee of his jeans. “I’ll probably go into anaphylactic shock, you know?”

Peter rolls his eyes.

 

***

 

Stiles spends the entire day working in the milking shed, cleaning it out after the animals have been milked. When Peter drives him home he smells like manure.

Good.

 

***

 

Three nights later the newly installed alarm on the chicken pen blares, and Peter leaps out of bed. He crashes into Derek in the hallway of the house, and they both rush outside to find Stiles sitting naked in the pen, with a surprised look on his face and feathers sticking out of his mouth.

“Stop eating our fucking chickens!” Derek yells at him.

Stiles blinks.

“What chickens?” he asks innocently.

Peter is definitely going to murder him.

 

***

 

“You’re a terrible farmer,” Stiles tells Peter on his third week of enforced labor. He’s graduated from cleaning out the milking shed to actually turning up at dawn to assist with the actual milking.

“So they tell me,” Peter says, sipping on his coffee as he reads the newspaper in his pyjamas on the front porch.

“Aren’t you supposed to get out of bed early? It’s ten o’clock!”

“Aren’t you supposed to be at school?”

“Excuse you, I graduated last month.”

“You graduated? From what? Junior high?”

“I’m eighteen!” Stiles narrows his eyes at him. “What do you even do around here anyway? Derek does all the work.”

Peter ignores him, and Stiles stomps angrily away.

 

***

 

“Try this,” Derek says that night at dinner.

“Derek, I love you and you are a creative genius,” Peter says, “but I am so sick of fucking cheese.”

Derek just rolls his eyes and shoves the cheese forward.

Peter sighs and tastes it. It’s good. Of course it’s good.

“Stiles helped me with it,” Derek says.

“You let that disaster into your lab?”

Derek shrugs. “He’s not so bad.”

“This is what is called the thin edge of the wedge,” Peter tells him, cutting another chunk of cheese. “He’ll worm his way in, and we’ll never be rid of him, and our surviving chickens will live in fear and misery until the end of their days.”

“Peter, he’s an omega,” Derek says, reproachful.

“He’s a fox,” Peter reminds him. “Foxes aren’t pack animals the same way we are. They’re often solitary creatures. They don’t have omegas.”

“He doesn’t have anyone to talk to about shifting,” Derek says. “He’s just a kid. He needs some guidance, I think. And he's not solitary by choice. He's  _lonely_.”

Actually, the cheese isn’t that great. It suddenly tastes a little sour in Peter’s mouth.

 

***

 

Peter tells Stiles that he’s spending the night with the Hales for full moon.

“No, dude, seriously, that’s a terrible idea,” Stiles says. “I have like really intense hay fever right now, and my dad says I’m not supposed to stay out at night, because it’s getting colder, and bad for my sinuses.”

Peter levels a stare at him. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you that werewolves know when you’re lying?”

Stiles’s eyes widen. “Fuck. Really?”

Peter’s going to take that as a no.

Nevertheless, despite his unwillingness, Stiles turns up on the night of the full moon. Well, the sheriff’s cruiser turns up and Stiles is dumped out of it on the side of the road. Stile grumbles to himself as he follows Peter and Derek into the Preserve. Then, in a very human display of modesty, he insists on disrobing behind a tree.

“Are you done yet?” Peter demands, tugging his own clothes off easily.

A red muzzle appears from behind the tree first, followed by bright eyes and pricked ears. He’s so _small_. When Peter shifts, the fox barely comes up to his belly. In fact, when he’s startled by an owl of all things, Stiles immediately takes refuge under Peter’s legs and refuses to come out again. Peter just huffs out a breath and walks away, leaving the fox huddling there.

Peter and Derek run under the light of the moon, the little fox panting to keep up. And often tripping over its own feet. How is it that the fox is as clumsy as the boy? Still, they wear him out over the course of a few hours and, Peter likes to think, growl at him often enough to keep him mostly in line and to impress on him that they’re the big scary ones, and they’re not putting up with any more of his bullshit.

Stiles is half asleep when they drop him back at his father’s house. He’s tuckered out.

“I think that went well,” Derek says cautiously.

“I think so too,” Peter says.

The next morning the chicken pen is covered in blood and feathers.

 

***

 

Peter grips Stiles tightly by the back of the neck as he marches him into the produce store.

“Here they are,” he growls, waving the helpful staff member away. Peter’s done this so often lately that he doesn’t need any fucking assistance. “Pullets. Point of lay. $25 _each_. Pick four.”

“What?”

“Four,” Peter tells him, thrusting him toward the chickens. “And not just any four. I want you to pick the four you like the most.”

Stiles gives him the side-eye. “What?”

“Oh yes,” Peter says with an evil smile. “You’re going to pick the four cutest chickens, and then you know what you’re going to do?”

“What?” Stiles asks, eyes wide.

Peter narrows his eyes at him. “You’re going to _name_ them.”

 

***

 

Esmeralda, Lady Cynthia Cottersley, Marigold and Dave (“What the _hell_ , Stiles?”) settle in to life in the petting zoo quite happily. Peter almost feels sorry for them. They have no idea their nice little coop is actually soaked in the blood of their predecessors.

 

***

 

When the alarm goes off in the middle of the night, Peter stumbles out of bed and heads outside expecting to see carnage. Instead, he sees a small fox standing with his paws on the wire of the coop, staring avidly at the chickens inside. As Peter approaches, the fox shifts.

“Um, hi?” Stiles mumbles, and then flails. “Shit, I’m kinda naked here.”

“And hungry?” Peter asks.

“I don’t know.” Stiles chews his bottom lip and stares at the chickens again.

And Peter does not stare at his ass, or the way the moonlight makes his skin glow.

“I think that’s why I came,” Stiles admits at last. “But then I was all like, that’s Dave! You can’t eat _Dave_!”

Peter smirks slightly. “You might finally be learning some control.”

Stiles brightens a little. “Yeah?”

“Seems like,” Peter tells him. “Now come inside, and I’ll lend you some pants.”

Stiles’s grin is caught somewhere between embarrassed and sassy. “Or not?”

Peter snorts.

 

***

 

He does lend Stiles some pants.

In the morning.

 

 


	20. An Empty House

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pairing: background Stiles/Derek, I guess? 
> 
> I literally have no idea what is going on here. I took some cold medicine and had a daytime nap and this is what happened. It's an a/b/o world, but I think werewolves aren't known? No clue, you guys, no clue.
> 
> ** Follow this link for the expanded story: [Empty](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7131875)**

The job doesn’t come with the house, but that’s how it works out. The former sheriff mentions offhand that he’s selling the place, and Parrish, because he’s still living out of a suitcase in a hotel, asks what he’s expecting for it. An hour later, after checking the place out, they shake on the deal.

It’s a big house for a single guy, but the price was good.

Feels a little weird, taking Stilinski’s job and his house, but if Parrish is honest with himself this whole situation feels weird. He’s not even thirty, and he’s Sheriff of Beacon Hills. It only took a Google search to figure it out. The job is a poison chalice. Four years ago someone set a bomb off in the station, killing eight deputies. And that was just the bloody end to years of unsolved cases. Not just little stuff either. Attacks, arsons, murders. Beacon Hills is a pretty town, but it’s seen a lot of unexplained bloodshed.

But Parrish was drawn here.

Mostly for the change in pace, despite the town’s recent history. It’s sure as fuck not Afghanistan. It’s not L.A. either, where Parrish was a cop for five years after getting out of the army.

He put in for position of interim sheriff because he needed a change. And he’s got a year and a half until the election to prove himself to the residents. He still doesn’t understand why none of the Beacon Hills’ deputies wanted the job. Not really. Not until he meets Sheriff Stilinski.

The man’s friendly enough, but Parrish has seen that look before. The blank one. The one that Parrish is more used to seeing in the faces of the guys he remembers from the dusty plains of Helmand Province. Stilinski is a broken man.

It doesn’t take long for Parrish to figure out why. His kid’s name is in one of the many unsolved case files that land on Parrish’s desk his first day in the job. It explains the look in Stilinski’s eyes. It also explains the way he walked around the house before he handed it over to Parrish, his shaking hand lingering on windowsills, on walls, on the doorframe of the one empty room he didn’t step inside.

Parrish hopes Stilinski finds some peace now he’s put Beacon Hills behind him.

It takes a while to settle in. There’s a lot to learn about the town, and about running the department. The deputies are good though, and the admin staff saves his ass on more than one occasion when it comes to rosters, and meetings, and budgeting. Parrish goes into election year feeling like this is something he can do.

He works on the house on his days off. Gives it a fresh coat of paint inside and out. Strips the old carpet back to the floorboards and polishes them up. Renovates the bathroom. He makes friends and invites them around for backyard barbecues and football games. It’s good.

The house still feels too big though.

At the end of fall, a storm rolls through Beacon Hills. Parrish finishes work late. He stayed behind to help with traffic control when the lights went out on Main Street. When he gets home, he’s dripping wet. He parks the cruiser in the driveway, and heads inside. He showers and changes, and makes himself a sandwich for dinner. Then he heads upstairs and climbs into bed with a book.

He dozes, he thinks.

Wakes with a start when a branch scrapes against the side of the house in a wild gust of wind.

He checks his phone. It’s past midnight. No messages or calls from the station.

He reads another few pages of his book.

The storm is unsettling. Every noise seems unexpected, and out of place.

The scrape of branches, the rustling of leaves, the dull roar of the rain on the roof. Outside, the darkness is broken by jagged flashes of lighting. Thunder rumbles low and close.

There’s a strange tap-tap-tapping from somewhere. Parrish listens for a moment, but can’t figure out what it is. He reads the same paragraph in his book three times. And then something that sounds like a reedy wail rises through a break in the rain and the thunder.

Parrish climbs out of bed.

He’s halfway down the stairs when there’s another brilliant flare of lightning, and then the power goes out.

He hears the wailing again, coming from the back of the house.

Parrish heads for the kitchen, grabbing the flashlight off the top of the refrigerator.

Lightning illuminates the world for a brief moment, and that’s when Parrish sees the figure standing outside the kitchen window. He crosses to the kitchen door, holding the torch like a baton, and unlocks the door and pulls it open.

“Dad?” a thin voice asks. “Dad?”

 

***

 

The kid tries to run when he realizes, but Parrish grabs him by the arm. That’s when he sees the kid’s holding a toddler on his hip.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Parrish says. “Come inside. Come on.”

“No,” the boy says, his voice ragged. “No! Don’t touch me!”

He’s like a feral animal. Parrish is afraid if he lets him go, he’ll never see the boy again.

The toddler wails loudly when lightening cracks the sky again.

In that brief flash of light, Parrish sees the ghost of the former sheriff’s son in the too-thin face, in the dark eyes, in the mole-speckled skin.

“Stiles,” he says, and the kid flinches at the name. “It’s Stiles, right?”

“H-how…”

Parrish uses the kid’s confusion to corral him into the kitchen. To close the door behind him.

“My name is Jordan Parrish,” Parrish tells him. “I’m the sheriff.”

The kid hugs the wailing toddler tight. “Where’s my _dad_?”

“He retired,” Parrish says, and flinches when a sob escapes the kid’s throat. “He never stopped looking, Stiles, okay? I can call him. I’ll call him, okay?”

Stiles nods, and hides his face in the toddler’s dark curls as lightning illuminates the kitchen once again.

“You’re freezing,” Parrish says. “You must be. Come upstairs and I’ll get you some dry clothes.”

“I just want my dad,” Stiles mumbles.

“Daddy!” the toddler wails.

Omega.

The reports had said the Stilinski kid was an omega. That he’d probably been targeted because of it.

“You should put your son in something dry at least,” Parrish says.

At that moment, the lights flicker back on.

Jesus.

Stiles is a mess. He’s too thin, and there are bruises on his face and arms that Parrish didn’t see before. Dark circles under his eyes. And something that looks like claw marks on his throat. What the _hell_?

“Yeah,” he croaks. “Okay, yeah.”

Parrish leads him up the stairs.

He fetches a towel from the bathroom, and then goes into his bedroom to grab a warm hoodie for the toddler to snuggle in. He grabs his phone at the same time, and hopes Stilinski is still in his contacts.

When he comes back outside, the hallway is empty. He finds Stiles and the toddler in the spare room. It’s full of boxes and renovation supplies and tools. It’s the room Stilinski couldn’t walk into the day he left. Parrish doesn’t need to see the heartbreak on Stiles’s face to confirm this was once his bedroom.

“Hey,” he says, and hands over the towel.

The toddler wails when Stiles puts him down. Then, when Stiles gets on his knees to dry him, the toddler keeps trying to climb back into his arms.

Parrish leans in the doorway as Stiles undresses the toddler and then tugs the hoodie over his head.

“You warm now, baby?” Stiles asks, and the toddler dives back into his arms. Stiles holds the bunched-up towel between them, keeping the hoodie dry. There’s something in his expression as he gazes around the room. Something haunted, and hunted. Something almost cold. And then he closes his eyes, and for a moment he looks achingly vulnerable, as young as the teenager he was when he vanished five years ago. When he opens his eyes again, they’re shining. “Will you call my dad?”

Parrish nods, and unlocks his phone screen.

Stiles stands up, carrying the toddler on his hip again. He steps toward Parrish, and suddenly Parrish is holding an armful of wriggling toddler.

“His name is Ryan,” Stiles says. The hand he rubs over the toddler’s damp curls is thin and pale. “Tell my dad his name is Ryan Hale.”

Then Stiles kisses the top of the toddler’s head and shoves past Parrish.

Parrish fumbles with his phone and almost drops it. “What? Wait!”

Ryan begins to wail again.

Parrish hurries down the stairs behind Stiles. “Stiles, wait!”

For a second he thinks Stiles is going to listen. The way his shoulders tense, the way he almost stumbles to a stop before his footsteps are carrying him back toward the kitchen. Then he’s twisting the doorknob and wrenching the back door open.

“Stiles!” Parrish yells. “Stiles, where are you going?”

_Where are you going?_

_Where have you been?_

_What_ happened _to you?_

Stiles turns, silhouetted by a flash of lighting behind him that lights up the sky. “I’m going back for his father,” he says.

Ryan screams, reaching out his hands for Stiles.

“Stiles!” Parrish yells again.

But Stiles is already gone, a shadow in the night, swallowed by the storm, leaving nothing behind but an open door, wet footprints, and his screaming son.

The house has never seemed more empty.

 


	21. Mute

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pairing: Derek/Stiles pre-slash
> 
> I can't remember who it was who asked for this on GR. I want to say Rosa...? Or maybe Bitchie...? But I could be wrong. Anyway, you know who you are, and this is for you!

“Lydia!” Stiles wails when he wrenches open the door of the loft. “Lydia, Derek is broken!”

He’s clearly drunk and hopeless, or otherwise a proclamation like that would have Lydia seriously concerned. It helps that she can see over his shoulder, to where Derek is wandering around the kitchen with his back turned, putting away dishes. Those are not the actions of a broken man. A pissed off man, certainly, by the angry line of his shoulders, but not broken.

“Halp meeeee!” Stiles wails, breathing bourbon fumes all over her.

Lydia steps inside the loft and surveys the damage.

Scott is crashed out on the floor. Isaac is face down on the couch, one arm extended, hand dangling into space. Only Peter seems relatively undamaged, although he’s swaying a little on his customary seat on the stairs. His fingers are curled loosely around the stem of a wine glass.

“I see you finally figured out the magic formula for getting drunk,” she comments.

Peter smiles lazily, and tilts his wineglass in her direction. Red wine sloshes over the edge, and drips through the steps onto the floor below.

“Lydiaaaa!” Stiles wails again. “Derek! We broke Derek!”

The man in question shoves a plate forcefully into the sink.

Stiles’s eyes are wide, and filled with guilty tears. “I broke him, and now he can’t talk!”

“I can talk just fine!” Derek says sharply.

“He’s muuuute!”

On the couch, Isaac snorts and jerks like a puppy dreaming of squirrels.

Lydia sets her handbag down, removes Stiles’s damp fingers from her blouse, and heads toward Derek. He’s still aggressively cleaning the kitchen with his back turned to the rest of the loft.

Stiles stumbles after her.

“Derek?” Lydia asks. “What’s going on?”

“I’m fine,” Derek says tersely.

“What is he even _saying_?” Stiles moans, arms flailing. Stiles is a very messy drunk.

“What are you talking about?” Lydia asks him. “He’s saying he’s fine!”

“But _is_ he?” Stiles demands. “ _Is_ he? Who can even tell? He can no longer communicate with us, Lydia! I've broken him!”

Derek huffs, annoyed, and turns around, and—

Oh.

Lydia’s eyes widen and she tries not to choke.

“Look!” Stiles exclaims. “ _Look_!”

“I’m looking,” Lydia says primly, doing her best to hold back a laugh.

He's—

Oh god. They’ve got drunk and shaved Derek’s eyebrows off. And he looks _ridiculous_. Lydia knows that glare of his. It’s the one that usually beams out from underneath his very angry closely-drawn eyebrows. And clearly the eyebrows had all the power in that relationship, because this? This expression really is impossible to read.

“Is he angry?” Stiles begs to know, tugging at Lydia’s sleeve. “Is he going to rip my throat out?”

“I’m not angry, Stiles,” Derek says in his usual clipped monotone, and Lydia realizes that Stiles is absolutely right. Without his eyebrows, there’s actually no way to tell.

“Oh my god,” she breathes. “You _are_ mute!”

“I’m sorry, Derek!” Stiles exclaims. “Please let me make it up to you! Just tell me what to do and—” His expression brightens. “Do you want me to blow you?”

Derek’s eyes narrow. “I do not want you to blow me, Stiles.”

Lydia stares at Stiles.

Stiles stares back at her. “Is that a yes, or a no? I _can’t tell_.”

Over on the stairs, Peter laughs so hard wine comes out of his nose. “I can tell!”

“Shut up, Peter,” everyone says at once.

Derek turns back to the sink, and Stiles shifts from foot to foot beside Lydia like an anxious toddler desperate to pee.

“I broke him!” he whispers sadly.

Lydia sighs, and moves back to collect her handbag. She opens it, and digs around inside until she finds her eyebrow pencil.

“Here’s how we’re going to fix this,” she says. “I’m going to draw some eyebrows on Derek until his grow back, and then he’ll be able to talk again. Happy?”

Stiles nods and sniffles. He’s clearly lying.

Lydia sighs. “And tomorrow, when you’re sober, I’m going to bring you back here so that you can apologize, and ask Derek out on a date like a real human boy instead of a drunken hysterical mess, okay?”

Stiles narrows an eye. Just the one. “Why would I want to ask Derek on a date?” he asks very slowly and carefully.

Lydia pats him on the shoulder. “Because you just offered to blow him in the kitchen twenty seconds ago.”

“Oh.” Stiles nods slowly. He lowers his voice and tries to look conspiratorial. “And what did he say?”

Lydia sighs, and waves her eyebrow pencil in his face. “Stiles, it’s impossible to tell.”

Stiles sighs sadly, and Lydia heads over to Derek with her eyebrow pencil at the ready.

Of course it’s not impossible to tell how much Derek wants Stiles. Even without the eyebrows. But why spoil the fun? Watching these two idiots try and figure themselves out is going to be hilarious.


	22. Bouquets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An incredibly short little drabble that slots into the Little Wild Animal universe. It will honestly make no sense unless you've read that.  
> A Tumblr anon asked about Stiles as a flower girl. 
> 
>  
> 
> Pairings: Stiles/Derek  
> Alex (OC)/Jason (OC)

Alex sees the way that Stiles narrows his eyes at the kids as they line up for the rehearsal. Erin and Cassie are holding bunches of wildflowers–the actual bouquets don’t arrive until Saturday–and Jacob is doing his best to look bored and unimpressed. And Stiles… Stiles is looking at them the way he used to look at cookies and cake. The way he still looks at Derek most of the time. Like his little fox brain is fixated on something he  _wants_. 

Still, the rehearsal goes off without a hitch, and Alex gets sidetracked into helping Simon with his speech. Simon is Jason’s best man, and he was totally fine with that up until right now apparently, when it’s just hit him how many people he’s going to have to talk in front of. The Hales, and the Argents, and a bunch of people from other packs in town. By the time Alex and Jason talk Simon down from his stage fright, Stiles has vanished inside the house. 

Alex heads inside, leaving the rest of the pack to finish figuring out where the decorations are going to go. When it comes to wedding planning, Peter is fucking  _brutal_. In the past three months two professional wedding planners have already quit, but Peter has promised he can do a better job. Alex doesn’t doubt him for a second. 

Alex heads upstairs, and finds Derek sitting in the hallway outside the room he shares with Stiles. 

“Is everything okay?” Alex asks. 

Derek sighs. “Stiles? Alex is here.” 

“I don’t want to talk to him!” Stiles yells back through the door. 

“Stiles,” Alex attempts. “Come on!” 

“No!” 

Derek climbs to his feet. “Guess I’m going to have to break the door down.” 

The door is wrenched open, and Stiles is standing there, glaring. “You wouldn’t dare!” 

“No,” Derek agrees. “Mom would kill me. But now I don’t have to.” 

“Asshole,” Stiles mutters, but there’s no heat in the words. 

Alex steps inside. “What’s going on, Stiles?” 

Stiles looks genuinely upset. “How come I don’t get to carry flowers?” 

“What?” 

“For the wedding,” Stiles says. “I like flowers.” 

“Stiles…” Derek sighs. 

“You want to carry flowers?” Alex asks. 

“I saw it on TV,” Stiles says. “Why do bridesmaids get to carry flowers but groomsmen don’t?” 

Alex just blinks at him for a moment. Derek is his best man, and Stiles is his groomsman. But Alex isn’t exactly a traditional groom. His suit isn’t exactly a suit. It isn’t exactly a dress either. It’s kind of in-between, which is Alex all over. Why the hell shouldn’t Stiles carry a bouquet? 

Alex crosses to the window and leans out. “Peter! Uncle Peter!” 

Peter looks up from where he’s tangled in fairy lights in the back yard. 

“Peter, we’re going to need bouquets for the best men and groomsmen!” Alex yells down. 

Peter gives him a mock salute. “I’m on it, pup!” 

When Alex turns around, Stiles is beaming, and Derek looks like he’s on the verge of laughter. 

“What?” Alex asks. 

Derek puts an arm around Stiles.  _“_ Flowers for  _all_  of us?” 

Alex starts to laugh. Derek and Simon won’t care about carrying bouquets, and Stiles is clearly over the moon about it, but Jason’s groomsman is Chris Argent. Chris Argent, who famously became alpha by tearing his own father’s throat out and plunging the Argents into the most vicious pack war in living memory. 

“Yeah,” Alex says. “Who doesn’t love peonies?” 

“You should probably let Peter break it to him,” Derek says, and pulls Alex into a hug. 

Alex wraps his arms around both of them. “You know, I’ll bet Peter will love that.” 


	23. Good Boy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by this [gifset](http://thisdiscontentedwinter.tumblr.com/post/146968544922/mysnarkyself-teen-wolf-au-sterek-au-where).  
> I tried to link to the creator, but apparently I still can’t work Tumblr. 
> 
> Look, sometimes a thing just turns into a spanking fic. Apparently. 
> 
> You can read the expanded smut fest here: [Good Boy](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7630075)
> 
> Pairing: Stiles/Derek

“Oh, what a sight.”

Stiles wrenches around, almost dislocating his wrist. He winces in pain and in embarrassment, and then tries his best to look casual. Which isn’t that easy to do when one wrist is handcuffed to his dad’s desk.

It’s Derek Hale. Of course it is. Only the hottest deputy ever, and—although Stiles will never admit it—the reason he’s been hanging around the station so much this summer. Because Derek Hale is just so fucking hot. There’s hot, and then there’s Derek. Words are inadequate. Superlatives fall short. He’s just pure fucking perfection. Just _ugh_. Derek does things to Stiles’s admittedly scant self-possession and ability to successfully adult when he’s around, and turns him into even more of a gibbering idiot than usual. He also does things to Stiles’s dick.

Thank Jebus his pants are reasonably baggy today.

“Could you remove the cuffs?” Stiles asks, his face burning.

“No.” Derek Hale has a smile like sin. All the hot, dirty sins Stiles wants to commit. His smile is a thousand watts of pure _fuck me, fuck me hard_. At least that’s all Stiles can think when he sees it.

“Dude,” Stiles says, and then slumps against his dad’s desk. “Really?”

Derek steps into the office. He’s changed out of his uniform, and he’s in his street clothes. That fucking leather jacket. It’s screwing with Stiles just as much as its owner. Last night Stiles stopped at a red light behind a guy on a motorbike, and got an erection. Stupid Derek. Stupid Derek’s stupid jacket.

“What did you do this time, Stiles?” Derek asks, raising his eyebrows as he saunters closer. “Were you breaking into the records room again? No, wait, let me guess. You decided to _borrow_ your dad’s cruiser?”

“His taser, actually,” Stiles says, feigning nonchalance. “And I had a damn good reason.”

Derek’s smile grows impossibly brighter. “Oh, this I have to hear.”

Dammit.

Because what seemed like a damn good reason maybe actually _isn’t_?

“Okay,” Stiles attempts. “There’s this raccoon—”

Which is as far as he gets before Derek starts laughing.

“It tried to _bite_ me!” Stiles exclaims.

“Really?” Derek asks. “You were going to try to taser a raccoon?”

“In self defense!”

Derek steps closer, and Stiles can smell his aftershave. His smile vanishes. “You know what you need, Stiles?”

“What?” Stiles asks, and swallows.

Derek leans in, and breathes the words against his neck. “A spanking.”

“Wh-what?”

Somehow Derek has got a hand on either side of Stiles’s hips. “You heard me.”

Stiles’s brain short circuits. He should laugh, right? That’s what should be happening here, because this is a joke. This has to be a joke. Hot leather-clad deputies don’t just appear out of nowhere offering up _spankings_. Which aren’t sexy at all actually, except why is Stiles suddenly shivering at the thought of Derek’s hand landing a stinging slap on his ass?

He tries to backpedal away from that image. “You—you think my dad should spank me? I’m eighteen, dude!”

“I know exactly how old you are Stiles,” Derek tells him. “And I never said your dad should do it.”

The heat in the narrow space between their bodies is almost unbearable. Stiles knows that Derek can hear his breath hitching. He can feel the flush rising in his face. And he’s _hard_. Horribly, embarrassingly hard, and if Derek moves forward even a fraction, he’s going to be able to feel it.

What is even going on here?

“So what?” Stiles asks, and fuck knows where he even finds the courage. His tongue flicks out to swipe his bottom lip quickly. “You’re volunteering?”

Derek lifts his gaze from Stiles’s mouth. “Hell yes.”

What?

_What?_

Before Stiles can ever register what’s happening, Derek has stepped back and is turning him around to face the desk. The cuff pulls and rattles, and Stiles is breathless, dizzy, the way he gets before a panic attack, except this isn’t panic.

“Derek, what—”

Derek puts his hands on Stiles hips, and jostles him forward so that he hits the desk. “Do you want this, Stiles?” He scrapes his stubble against the nape of Stiles’s neck, and Stiles’s vision almost whites out. “Answer me.”

“Y-yeah.” Whatever the hell this is, yes, he wants it.

Derek slides his hands around to Stiles’s fly, and tugs it open. Then he’s pulling Stiles’s khakis down, and hooking his thumbs into Stiles’s Captain America underwear to drag them down too. He leaves the fabric bunched around Stiles’s thighs. His hands are big and warm as they sweep over the globes of Stiles’s ass, and Stiles groans and squirms.

“I think five should do the trick,” Derek says, and Stiles can hear the smile in his voice. “Assume the position, as they say.”

As who says? English schoolmasters? Scary Doms in ridiculous porn? Who? _Who_ says that?

Stiles widens his stance as much as his tangled underwear and pants allow, and grips the edge of his dad’s desk hard. Holy crap. His dad’s desk. With its _World’s Greatest Dad_ mug sitting right there. Stiles is going to hell. Derek is going to lose his job, and Stiles is for real going to hell.

He tenses when Derek lifts his hands from his ass, but he’s still not expecting the blow. It’s loud, a short, sharp crack that shocks him even before it starts to sting, and Stiles jerks and makes a noise caught somewhere between a gasp and a shout of surprise.

Derek’s hand rubs over the stinging flesh, soothing the flash of pain.

 _Holy fucking Jesus_. That _hurts_. And did Derek even close the door? Stiles tries to twist around and see, but blow number two leaves him whining. He turns his head and presses his mouth into his shoulder. Lets the sound out of him then.

“That’s it,” Derek says, voice calm. “That’s a good boy.”

Those words do something to Stiles’s dick. He pushes back into Derek’s touch, but then Derek’s hand is gone again. Stiles pants for breath, shuddering as Derek lands the third blow. It’s pain, but it’s warmth too, and Derek’s hands are back on his throbbing ass, touching him, gentling him, and Stiles’s dick is starting to leak. He’s into this. Holy crap. He’s actually into this, and not just in a theoretical way.

The fourth slap makes his body jerk. He squeezes his eyes shut, hot tears escaping, but it feels so good. So fucking good.

“More,” he rasps into his shirt.

“One more,” Derek says, voice as low as a growl.

Stiles sucks in a breath, shaking.

The fifth blow is the hardest yet, and the loudest, and it leaves Stiles trembling, his hips jerking abortively.

“Look at you,” Derek says, hands rubbing over his stinging ass. “Fuck. Look at you.”

Stiles gasps for breath.

Derek turns him around, hauls him forward. Stiles is straddling Derek’s jean-clad thigh. Derek holds him there, fingers digging into the tender, throbbing flesh of his ass.

“Come on,” he urges. “Rub yourself off on me.”

There is no actual way that Stiles can refuse that. Just like there’s no actual way he could have known what the fuck today was going to turn into. He curls his free hand behind Derek’s neck as he starts to move. The cuff rattles on his other wrist.

It’s good, and hot, and over embarrassingly fast. Stiles bites down on Derek’s leather jacket to muffle his cries when he comes, and then Derek’s setting him carefully down on his shaking legs again, and tugging up his underwear and jeans.

“You’re going to be good from now on, right, Stiles?” he asks in a low voice.

Stiles swallows, and glances at the door which, yeah, has been open this whole time. He drags his gaze back to Derek, eyes wide, and doesn’t really know how to answer that? Is the question still a part of whatever weird game they’re playing here? Or is it not a game at all? Stiles has no fucking clue.

Derek reaches forward and grips his chin. Tilts his head up so Stiles can’t avoid his gaze. “Stiles?”

“I’ll be good,” Stiles manages in a whisper.

Derek shows him that thousand watt smile again, and leans close. “Oh, I know you will. You’re going to be my good boy.” He brushes his mouth against Stiles’s in a gentle kiss that leaves Stiles more breathless than the spanking. When he leans back, he’s smiling again, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “My shift finished an hour ago. I’ll call you, I guess.”

“What?” Stiles blinks, and waits for the world to start making sense. “Wait. What about the cuffs?”

“I’m sure the sheriff will take them off you when he gets back from his patrol.”

“Derek! Seriously?” Stiles doesn’t think he’s talking just about the cuffs. Like, what even just happened here?

“I’ll call you,” Derek says, stepping toward the door. “And you’ll pick up, won’t you?”

Stiles gets the feeling he’s in way over his head right now. He also gets the feeling he’s going to love every fucking minute of it. “Yeah. I’ll pick up.”

“Good boy,” Derek says with a grin, and leaves him cuffed to the desk.

 


	24. It's a Shadow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pairing: Stiles/Derek

Stiles is ten and he hates the high school and the chickenpox. He hates the high school because it’s boring, and he hates the chickenpox because he’s not allowed to go and hang out with Scott until Scott’s better. So instead he’s meant to sit quietly—ha!—at the front of the classroom while his dad, who’s a deputy, talks to a different bunch of high school kids every afternoon about how drugs are bad for you, and you shouldn’t send nude photographs of yourself to people, and how other kids on the internet might not even be kids after all. Stiles doesn’t have the greatest attention span at the best of times thanks to his ADHD, and listening to the same presentation for the third afternoon in a row isn’t helping.

He’s done his homework, and finished his juice box, and he’s _bored_.

His dad comes and leans over his desk. “Stiles?”

Stiles looks warily around at the classroom full of high school kids, who are all looking back at him, and hunches over. “Dad, can I go to the bathroom?”

“Awww!” says the girl sitting in the seat next to him, like he’s the cutest little thing in the world, which is ridiculous, because he’s _ten_ , almost eleven, and he is _not_ a little kid.

“Go on, kiddo,” his dad says, and scruffs his hair.

The second he’s out of the classroom, Stiles forgets all about going to the bathroom. Instead he’s drawn down a corridor lined with lockers, and then another one. High school is _big_ , but Stiles is treating this like reconnaissance. Like, he’s going to know his way around before he and Scott even come here. He’s not going to be scared on his first day, because he’ll already know where everything is.

Scott’s going to be so jealous!

Stiles is drawn further toward the back of the school. He hears the squeak of trainers on a floor and the thump of a ball before he even get to the doors of the gym. They’re propped open just enough that a skinny little kid like Stiles can slip through. He sees a boy shooting hoops. He’s concentrating so hard that he doesn’t even notice Stiles is there. He’s tall, and has dark hair, and is really good looking. Stiles feels a tiny pang of something he can’t name inside him, but feels enough like jealousy to excuse it, and then his attention is caught by something shiny behind the bleachers.

Stiles hurries forward and crawls in behind the seats, stretching to reach forward to claim his prize.

It’s a quarter. Score! Stiles turns it over in his palm before he pockets it.

He looks out between the seats when he hears the click-click-click sound of heels on the floor.

The boy hears it as well, and turns to face the woman.

She’s really pretty, for a grown up? She has long blonde hair and lips that are painted red. She’s wearing a skirt and a blouse, and has a BHHS staff lanyard around her neck.

“Hello, Derek,” she says.

The boy doesn’t say anything.

“Look at you,” the woman says, a smile playing on those bright red lips. “Getting all _sweaty_.”

Something inside Stiles twists and tightens. He can’t properly articulate it, except _wrong wrong wrong_. And then the woman reaches out and grabs Derek by the hair, and pulls him forward into a kiss. Derek’s trainers squeak on the floor. The woman’s other hand slides up into his baggy basketball shorts.

_Wrong wrong wrong!_

Stiles bursts out from underneath the bleachers like a whirlwind, racing for the doors. He sees the look of shock and horror on the woman’s face, and on Derek’s, and then he’s pushing through the doors and pelting down the corridor.

“Dad!” He starts yelling for him before he’s even at the classroom. “Daaaaaad!”

When his dad opens the classroom door, Stiles launches himself at him, babbling and frantic, while the wide-eyed high school kids look on.

Class is cancelled that afternoon.

 

***

 

The boy’s name is Derek Hale. It’s supposed to be a secret what that teacher did, but it doesn’t take long for people to put two and two together, and pretty soon the whole town knows. Derek Hale drops out of school.

Stiles ruined his life. He knows he did.

He sees it in Derek Hale’s face when he passes him in the hallway at the courthouse, on his way to tell the judge and jury what he saw in the gym that afternoon. Derek Hale looks like he’s about to cry.

Stiles does cry, right up there on the stand.

Afterwards, he wonders if the stenographers have special keys on their machines for that.

 

***

 

“What are you thinking, kid?” his dad asks him that night as he’s tucking him into bed. Because Stiles is ten, almost eleven, but sometimes he still needs his dad to tuck him in, okay?

“Do you think Derek hates me?”

His dad sighs. “I think Derek is very confused right now.”

So that’s a yes.

“Stiles,” his dad says. “You did the right thing. It’s a bad situation all round, but you did the right thing.”

Stiles thought the right thing was supposed to feel good.

It becomes like a shadow after that, even when everything’s died down. A shadow, because the knowledge of it is always there. It’s not like the bad stuff his dad talked about in that class. It’s real, it’s immediate. It has a face.

People hurt people.

Stiles has seen it now, and he can’t forget it.

It’s a shadow.

When the world should be bright, it’s still there.

 

***

 

Stiles is fifteen, almost sixteen, when his dad is elected Sheriff. Stiles gets his driver’s license around the same time. He also gets his mom’s old Jeep. He’s almost sixteen when he steps into the corridors of Beacon Hills High School again, this time as a student.

He hates gym class the most, and for once it’s got nothing to do with dodge ball.

  

***

 

The Hales are a big family. They live out in a massive house in the Preserve. There are like dozens of them or something. The name is impossible to escape in Beacon Hills. Every second plaque on every second statue has the Hale name on it. Talia Hale is on the town council. Her husband James builds custom design furniture that costs more than Stiles’s entire college fund. Another brother William is an architect. Peter is a lawyer. One of Talia’s sisters runs the best coffee place in town. Cora Hale is the year above Stiles in school. They’re the oldest family in Beacon Hills. They practically built the place.

Stiles is surprised to open the door to Talia Hale one evening. Surprised, and also, he’s sort of wearing nothing but his Captain America boxers.

“Um,” he says. “Sorry. I thought you were the UPS guy.”

“This is how you open the door to the UPS guy?” Talia Hale asks, arching her perfect eyebrows. Her mouth twitches like she’s trying to hold back a smile.

“Um,” Stiles says, and is saved by his dad.

“Jesus Christ, Stiles,” John says. “What have I told you about putting on pants to answer the door?”

“That I definitely should,” Stiles mumbles.

“Come in, Talia, please,” John says. “And my apologies for Stiles. He’s…” He tilts his head at Stiles like he’s searching for just the right word. He sighs instead. “He’s Stiles.”

Stiles heads upstairs to find pants and a shirt. When he comes back down again, his dad and Talia are in the kitchen. John’s pulling ingredients out of the refrigerator.

“Sorry, things get a little rushed here in the evenings, and if we don’t start dinner now we won’t be eating until midnight.”

Stiles wishes his dad was exaggerating, but it’s happened before.

“I totally understand,” Talia says. “I’m sorry I called in at such a busy time.”

John straightens up. “I figured you’d be stopping by sometime soon.”

Stiles nudges his dad out of the way. “I can do it, Dad.”

He pulls the carrots out and starts to chop them. Maybe with Talia here, his dad won’t bitch and moan too much if he throws together a vegetarian stir-fry. With extra spinach.

“So, you’re running for mayor,” John says. “And you’re here to ask for my endorsement.”

“That’s right,” Talia says.

“I’m not usually in the habit of endorsing candidates,” John tells her. “I don’t like politics.”

“It’s a dirty game,” Talia agrees. “But you’re an elected official yourself. You know how it works.”

“Sure.” John gets a couple of beers out of the fridge and hands one over to Talia. “But why should I endorse you over Hamilton?”

“Because I’m prepared to increase your budget so you can hire two new deputies,” Talia says.

“Is that something the city can afford to do?”

“John, is it something we _can’t_ afford to do?” It’s a politician’s answer, and it’s delivered so straight-faced that for a second Stiles thinks she’s serious. Then Talia laughs. “It is, actually, and we can do it without cutting the budgets from other frontline services. I’ve got the figures here.”

John sits down at the small kitchen table across from her, and flips through the paperwork she presents him. “This looks pretty good.”

“I’ve been on the council for ten years now,” Talia tells him. “I like to think I know my way around a spreadsheet.”

Stiles tunes their conversation out when it gets into boring territory like budgets and quotas and shit like that. His attention is only caught again when John says, “So, how’s the family?”

“We’re good,” Talia says. “Laura’s graduated college now. She’s coming back in a few weeks.” The pride in her voice is unmistakable. “And Cora just made the state team for swimming.”

“That’s great,” John says. “How’s Derek doing?”

The blade of Stiles’s knife shudders against a carrot, and his heartbeat quickens.

“He’s fine.” Talia’s tone softens. “He’s getting good grades.”

Stiles spins around. “Derek’s at college?”

“In New York,” Talia says.

“I thought…” Stiles flushes. “I thought he dropped out of school.”

“We homeschooled him,” Talia says. “After everything.”

“And he’s okay?” Stiles presses, even though of course it’s none of his business. Of course it is. But he still remembers the way his gaze caught Derek’s in the courthouse that day, and how sick and pale and afraid he looked. How guilty Stiles felt for being the one to put him there.

“He’s doing fine,” Talia says.

“Okay,” Stiles says, dropping his gaze. “That’s, um, that’s good.”

He’s an idiot for asking, because who is Stiles is this story? The footnote. He doesn’t have any right to demand to know how Derek’s doing. He’s not owed anything. He doesn’t have some connection with Derek Hale though the trauma of Derek’s history. It wasn’t something they _shared_. Stiles is nothing to Derek. Just some kid who saw something he shouldn’t have and brought the whole thing crashing down.

And what’s Derek Hale to Stiles anyway?

He doesn’t know him.

He just…maybe there’s some small part of Stiles that thinks that if Derek’s really okay, that everyone can be, in the end.

That night, long after Talia Hale has left, Stiles lies awake in his bed and thinks of his mom.

The ache has never gone away.

The shadow doesn’t either.

 

***

 

The week after Talia Hale is elected mayor, Stiles and John are invited to dinner at their house.

“Can’t I go to Scott’s instead?” Stiles grumbles in the car.

“No,” John says firmly. “You were invited too, kiddo. And it’s not a big deal.”

Not a big deal? His dad made him wear button-up shirt. It’s going to suck. The only one of the Hale kids close to Stiles’s age is Cora, and she pretty much terrifies the living fuck out of him. The collar of Stiles’s shirt feels like it’s strangling him before they even get to the Hale house.

In all fairness, it’s not as terrible as Stiles had been expecting. It’s not one of those dinners he’s seen in the movies, with three hundred different types of fork or anything. It’s actually a cookout, and Stiles and his dad aren’t the only non-Hales there, and it’s actually pretty easy to line up for a burger and then slink away into the shelter of the trees and play Candy Crush. Stiles has had worse nights. The burger is actually freaking good.

The evening is cool, not cold, and the sound of voices and laughter drifts through the air. Stiles finishes his burger, and immediately wonders if he could fit another one in. Some days his Adderall messes up his appetite, but today is definitely not one of those days. He should go and get another burger.

He stands up and brushes the leaves from his ass, and then slips his phone inside his pocket. He heads back toward the house, following the sound of voices and the smell of the barbecue. He’s almost made it to the Hales’ backyard again when he becomes aware he’s not the only antisocial one lurking in the shelter of the trees.

It’s Derek.

His face isn’t soft around the edges the way it was when Kate Argent touched it. It’s sharper now. The strong line of his jaw is covered in stubble that’s just a fraction too short to call a beard. And, illuminated in the glow of the screen of his phone, there are dark shadows under his eyes.

He looks up when Stiles snaps a twig under his shoe.

“Hey,” Stiles mutters.

_Are you okay?_

_Are you okay?_

_Are you_ okay _?_

The question’s been waiting to burst out of him for five years, but Stiles can’t let it out now. Stiles is a footnote, a postscript, an afterthought.

“Hey,” Derek Hale says.

Stiles keeps his head down as he steps past him. If there’s going to be a flash of awful recognition, Stiles doesn’t want to see it.

He goes and gets another burger.

 

***

 

Somehow Talia gets wind of just how often Stiles is left to fend for himself. With his dad’s shiftwork, there have always been a few nights a week he eats alone. He used to spend most of those with Scott, who’s in the same boat, but now Scott’s working most evenings at the vet clinic, so that’s a wash. So somehow a scowling Cora Hale bullies it out of Stiles every day whether or not his dad is working, and, if he is, Stiles is expected to turn up and eat with the Hales.

Evenings at the Hale house are insane. There are kids everywhere, and half the time Stiles doesn’t know who the hell they belong to. It’s kind of overwhelming for an only child in a single parent household. It’s just so crowded and noisy, but somehow it works.

Stiles avoids Derek, who is home for spring break.

Because Derek knows his name now. Knows whose son he is. Knows he’s the kid he saw in the high school gym that day, and much later at the courthouse.

And Derek is always reading cool books, and listening to awesome music, and he cracks jokes that even make Cora smile, and Stiles wants so much to be friends with someone like that. Someone smart and funny and cool (and _hot_ ), but you don’t get to build a friendship on what he and Derek have.

You don’t.

 

***

 

Maybe this is what growing up is. It’s not growth. It’s decay. It’s an endurance test. Every day, a little more weight. Every day, bend or break. Every day your eyes more open to a world that’s so unfair.

 

***

 

“Derek’s coming home for Christmas,” Cora announces one lunchtime in the cafeteria, planting herself between Stiles and Scott. “He wanted to know if you were going to be all weird about it?”

“What?” Stiles splutters. “I am not _weird_ about it!”

“You kind of are,” Cora tells him. “You get all weird and avoid him, then he gets all weird and guilty, and then everyone hates you both.”

“Shut up, Cora,” Stiles mutters.

“Shut up, Cora,” she mimics, and hits him in the back of the head.

 

***

 

“I got you a book,” Stiles blurts, shoving the present at Derek.

Derek raises his eyebrows. “It’s traditional to let someone unwrap it first, you know.”

“Yeah.” Stiles’s face burns.

Derek opens his present. It’s a second-hand copy of a third edition of _Tales of the South Pacific_. Stiles bought it because it looked old and he liked the cover.

“Thanks, Stiles.” Derek rubs his thumb over the cover. “This is really nice.”

“Okay,” Stiles says, and jams his hands in his pockets. “I should go, um, rescue my dad from Peter’s kids. Last I saw they were climbing him.”

Derek smiles, and the corners of his eyes crinkle. “That’s probably a good idea.”

 

***

 

Stiles is seventeen, almost eighteen, when his dad is shot.

He ends up at the Hale house at three in the morning, pale and shaking, hugging his pillow to his chest while Peter carries his overnight bag.

“He’s going to be okay, Stiles,” Peter tells him. “Look at me. He’s going to be fine.”

Everyone keeps saying, but how do they know for sure?

How does anyone _know_?

He can’t breathe. There’s a band around his chest, and it’s getting tighter and tighter. It’s impossible to pull any air into his lungs, and his vision is going dark at the edges.

Peter barely gets him inside before the panic attack hits.

 

***

 

Stiles wakes up in a narrow spare room with a sloping roof. He must be in the attic or something. And, also, how do the Hales even have a spare room? There are gazillions of them. While Stiles is pondering that and watching the sunlight cast strange patterns on the ceiling, he hears the floorboards outside the door squeak, and realizes that’s what woke him up in the first place.

The door opens a crack, and Derek steps inside. “Hey, you’re awake.”

Stiles nods.

“I brought you tea,” Derek tells him.

Stiles’s eyebrows shoot up. “Tea, dude, seriously?”

“It’s at least three quarters sugar,” Derek promises him, and sets the mug down on the small bedside table. His mouth quirks. “I, um, I used to get panic attacks too, you know.”

“I’m sorry,” Stiles says, his stomach twisting.

“What are you sorry for?”

“I’m sorry everyone found out. I’m sorry you had to quit school. I’m sorry for all that shit that people said.” Stiles feels tear sting his eyes.

_Kate Argent’s so hot._

_Boys can’t get raped._

_Hot for teacher._

_He’s probably bragging to all his friends about it._

_Lucky kid!_

_She could rape me any day._

Horrible twisted vicious stuff. Derek must have heard it every day for years.

“Hey,” Derek says, and sits down on the bed. “You know she didn’t go to jail for anything you did, right? She went to jail for what _she_ did.”

“Yeah, I know that.”

“Do you?” Derek asks, his voice soft. “Just…it took a long time for me to figure it out.”

“Yeah.” Stiles nods and swallows.

“Drink your tea,” Derek says, and puts a warm hand on Stiles’s knee. “Then Mom’s taking you to visit your dad, okay?”

The mug shakes so much when Stiles picks it up that he slops tea all over the place.

 

***

 

“I hated you,” Derek says a month later, when he’s helping Stiles fix the roof, while John, who’s still walking with the aid of crutches, directs from the yard. “I hated me. I hated my parents, and your dad, and the prosecutor. I hated everyone except her. That’s how twisted up I was. That’s how she made me.”

 

***

 

Sometimes it’s easy for Derek to talk about it. Sometimes it isn’t.

Stiles likes sliding into Derek’s space now. He likes the way Derek smiles when he does it. When they lean against one another on the couch. When their shoulders knock together cooking dinner at the kitchen counter. When their fingers twine together sometimes in the dark.

  

***

 

Stiles is twenty-one, almost twenty-two, when the boy who hated him takes his hand and draws him into the trees by the Hale house. That boy presses his mouth against Stiles’s, and shows him that he’s the man who loves him.

Stiles strokes the hair at the nape of Derek’s neck. It’s deceptively soft. “Is it okay? Is it okay for us to do this?”

Derek’s eyes are wide in the darkness. “It’s okay.”

“Are _you_ okay?” Stiles asks him softly.

Derek’s smile is the best answer in the world.

They stand there together for a long time in the shelter of the trees, while the party in the yard carries on without them. Stiles hears the adults laughing, the kids shrieking with excitement, but he feels no pull to go and join them.

Not yet.

Later, but not yet.

For now he wants to share the quiet with Derek.

Wants to feel the shadows fade away.


	25. Temptation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pairing: Stiles/Derek 
> 
> Poor Sheriff Stilinski.   
> I wrote this one while listening to [Temptation by New Order](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xxDv_RTdLQo&spfreload=10)  
> Because those lines about the eyes? Clearly meant for Derek Hale.

Stiles has moved on from beer to tequila shots by the time he remembers he was going to have an early night. Oh well, he’s got a day off tomorrow, and hey, it’s not every day that Barry retires, right?

Or is it Larry?

It might actually be Gary.

Okay, so Stiles doesn’t technically know the guy, but his wife Margaret is one of the admin people at the station, and Gary has spent the last thirty years working in County Records and since he’s only one of three people in the office, Margaret thought his retirement function would be a little small. Hence inviting all her colleagues as well. Poor Gary looks a little shell shocked, but that’s probably only because he’s never seen so many drunk cops in a room together before.

It’s way past midnight when one of Gary’s friends finally gets control of the jukebox, and then it’s pumping out awesome eighties music, and Gary and Margaret are dancing. It’s hilarious, because suddenly Margaret isn’t Margaret from the station anymore, she’s Margaret who goes off when she hears the choppy rhythms and fast tempos of new wave and synthpop. Stiles bets she had awesome hair and a killer vinyl miniskirt back in the day.

Stiles bounces around on the dance floor for as long as his tequila-laden stomach can handle, then heads back to the bar.

“I would like one large glass of water, please,” he intends to say, but it somehow comes out as, “Tequila.”

He takes his tequila shot, lines it up with his numb mouth, and slams it down.

“Another one, please.”

“You sure about that, Stiles?” a low, amused voice says from beside him.

“Yes,” Stiles says, and then turns his head.

It’s Derek.

It’s Derek Hale.

Derek-so-fucking-hot-Hale.

Yes, more tequila. Yes, fewer inhibitions. Because Stiles has been ogling Derek for _months_. Ever since Derek transferred into Beacon Hills. That was a red letter day, for sure. All the red. All the letters.

What is a red letter day exactly anyway?

“Hey, Derek,” he says, and hip checks him.

“Hey, Stiles. You having fun?”

“I am having soooo much fun,” Stiles assures him. “And also, soooo much tequila.”

“I see that.”

“You’re so hot,” Stiles sighs.

Derek turns kind of pink. He’s so hot _and_ adorable.

“Oooh!” Stiles exclaims. “This song, Derek! This is _your_ song!”

“My song?”

Stiles sways along to the beat for a while. “This bit. This bit here.” He slams down another shot, and swallows it just in time to start singing along. “Oh, you’ve got green eyes. Oh, you’ve got blue eyes. Oh, you’ve got grey eyes. And I’ve never seen anyone quite like you before.”

The kaleidoscope of Derek’s eyes vanishes when he ducks his head and smiles.

“No, I’ve never met anyone quite like _yooooou_ before.”

Derek’s smile is so pretty. “You’re drunk, Stilinski.”

“Yeah,” Stiles agrees with a grin. “You gonna take advantage of me, Hale?”

Derek leans in close.

Stiles focuses on his lips with difficulty, and his breath catches in his throat.

Somehow Derek bypasses the kiss. His hot breath tickles Stiles’s ear. “Stiles, we’re not going to make out in front of all our colleagues.”

“They don’t care,” Stiles promises.

“And also your dad.”

Stiles considers that for a moment. “That _might_ be awkward.”

“I should probably take you home,” Derek says. “Make sure you get there safely.”

Stiles reaches out and hooks his fingers into the belt loops of Derek’s tight jeans, tugging him into his space. “You probably should.”

He lets Derek lead him toward the door.

“Goodnight, Dad!” he yells as they pass the sheriff. “Look though! I’m totally getting lucky tonight!”

Derek turns bright red.

“Jesus Christ,” his dad mutters, and waves them away.

As they leave the bar, the jukebox is still playing loudly, and New Order is singing: _Oh it’s the last time. Oh, it’s the last time. Oh, it’s the last time._

Actually, Stiles wants to tell them, it’s the first time.

And, if Stiles has anything to say about it, it’s going to be the first time of many.

 

 


	26. Fixed it for you, Jeff

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pairing: Derek/Stiles
> 
> This is that one time I wrote a Sterek fix it fic in only four words. That is literally those four words. You're welcome. 
> 
> (Look, I have no explanation for why I'm even posting this. It's 3.30 am and I'm working tomorrow, so sleep deprivation is probably a pretty good reason. Also, I have a lot of COMPLICATED FEELINGS about Teen Wolf ending, because on one hand it's an absolute train wreck and has been for years, but on the other hand where will I find a show that's so much fun to play with? And has so much material, because, oh boy, Jeff Davis never saw an opportunity he didn't squander.)

"Derek. Don't go."   
"Okay."


	27. Best Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pairing: Derek/Stiles
> 
> This one was written for an anon prompt on Tumblr: Prompt idea, derek and stiles are turned into five year olds but still have alpha powers and spark powers, they also drive everyone crazy and become best friends forever.
> 
> I hope I did it some justice!

It’s been a long time since John Stilinski woke up to the sight of Stiles streaking naked around the living room. Although, if he’s honest with himself, it hasn’t been _that_ long. It’s Stiles, after all. But it’s been a long time since Stiles was running around naked _and_ he only came up to John’s waist.

“Stiles?” John asks, jaw dropping. His eighteen-year-old son doesn’t look a day over _five_.

“Daddy!” Stiles dives into his lap, bare knees squeaking against the worn leather of the chair.

He’s so damn _little_.

John runs his hands down his cold back, and stares helplessly over his shoulder at Scott, who suddenly appears in the doorway.

“Um,” Scott says. “So there were these _witches_ …”

 

***

 

It’s really dark. Derek isn’t scared of the dark, because he’s an alpha and he’s not scared of _anything_. He has claws and red eyes, and he’s the scariest thing in the dark! He’s much scarier than the bogeyman. He prowls back and forth on the cold floor for a little while, making practice growls and pretending to fight bad guys, but then he finishes doing that and it’s still dark, and now he’s hungry too, and there’s nothing in his refrigerator except some eggs and some powder stuff in a tin that tastes really gross.

Derek’s tummy growls, and he stands on his tiptoes to see if there’s anything in the cabinets. Then, because he’s still not tall enough, he gets a stool and clambers up on that instead. There’s some stuff in the cabinets, but Derek’s not super great at reading yet, and he doesn’t recognize any of these labels. None of them are peanut butter, that’s for sure. Maybe alphas don’t eat peanut butter. Maybe grownups don’t. Derek isn’t really sure of the rules.

He wishes his mom was here.

Derek’s tummy hurts and it’s not just because he’s hungry. It’s because he knows that this is supposed to be where he lives except nothing here feels right. He wants Mom and Dad. He wants Laura. He wants to be sitting at the kitchen table, swinging his legs and watching eagerly while dinner gets made. This cold dark open space isn’t his home.

Where’s Mom?

He knows he should remember, but it’s really, really hard.

It’s like the longer he stands here in the dark, the harder it gets.

The smaller he feels.

“Mom?” he whispers in the dark. “Momma?”

Nobody answers him.

 

***

 

Derek can hear the people arguing as they come up the steps.

“You left a _kid_ on his own?” a man demands, and he sounds angry.

“It’s _Derek_!” a younger man says. “He told us to leave him the hell alone!”

Derek ducks down behind the couch and hides.

He sort of remembers that younger guy from earlier. And Derek did tell him to go away and leave him alone. He didn’t say hell though. That’s a bad word. Anyway, the guy was already dealing with this other little kid who was bouncing around and yelling, and it was _weird_ because part of Derek wanted to growl at the other kid to be quiet, but when he tried his alpha growl came out a little too soft and a little too squeaky, and why was everyone else so _tall_? And why was his jacket so _big_?

The door to the loft makes a screechy sound as it’s rolled open, and Derek covers his ears with his hands.

Someone turns on the light, and Derek remembers that he’s an alpha, and he’s not scared. He peers out from behind the couch.

There’s a man standing there. He’s tall. He’s wearing a uniform and a badge _and_ a gun. He’s also wearing the same sort of smile Derek’s dad gets when Derek is trying really hard to be brave but it’s not quite working. Maybe all dads can tell, because this man is someone’s dad as well.

The kid from before is staring at Derek from behind his dad’s legs.

The younger man—the one Derek remembers from before—is looking at him with his face all screwed up and worried.

Derek tries to remember how to look like a tough alpha, but his leather jacket is kind of really too big and he can hardly see out of it. He tries to growl anyway.

The man in the uniform doesn’t look very scared of him. “Derek, I think you’d better come with me.”

“Are you a policeman?” Derek asks warily.

“He’s the sheriff!” the other little boy yells.

The sheriff pats the other little boy on the head. “Yes, I’m the sheriff.”

Derek thinks about that for a moment, and then trails forward. “Can you help me find my Momma?”

The sheriff exchanges a look with the man he was arguing with when they walked up the stairs. Then he smiles again. “Let’s get you some dinner, son, and then we can figure it all out, okay?”

He holds out his hand.

“Okay,” Derek says, and moves forward to take it.

 

***

 

Stiles is really annoying and bouncy, and also he gets a green bean stuck up his nose at dinner like he’s a stupid dumb _baby_ or something. Also he talks a lot. Like, he never shuts up, not even when his dad is helping him get the bean out. They have ice cream for dessert, and then the sheriff runs a bath so they can get all the ice cream off.

Stiles is really annoying, but he makes Derek the best bubble beard and then squeals with laughter.

Derek climbs into Stiles’s bed, and Stiles’s dad tells them a story, and the only time Stiles actually shuts up is when he finally falls asleep with his face smooshed into his pillow.

 

***

 

In the morning, Stiles’s dad sits them both down at the kitchen table and asks them if they remember what happened. Derek kind of remembers something about being out in the woods in the night, but he’s not really sure because Mom says he’s not supposed to go with strangers, and Derek thinks the people from last night were strangers.

Stiles says he remembers fireworks. He claps his hands and makes fireworks noises.

“Where’s my mom?” Derek asks at last.

Stiles looks at him, and then looks at his dad, and wrinkles his snub nose. “Is Derek’s mom with Mommy? Are they gonna come home soon?”

The sheriff frowns and tries to rub it away with his thumb. “Aw, hell.”

Hell is a rude word.

 

***

 

Derek doesn’t like the story the sheriff tells him. He crawls under the dining room table and doesn’t come out _forever_.

Well, until he gets hungry at lunchtime.

 

***

 

Scott brings over a bunch of clothes that smell like Goodwill, but at least they fit. Derek and Stiles get into a fight over who gets the wear the shirt with the wolf on it. Derek thinks he should, because he’s a wolf. Stiles thinks he should, because Derek is already a wolf.

Stiles is stupid.

Derek pops his claws and growls at him, and Stiles screams and runs away, but then comes back and hits Derek on the head with the remote control from the TV, and everyone cries, and the sheriff sends Stiles into time out.

 

***

 

On Tuesday night the pack comes over. Derek’s pack. They’re like really big kids, and Derek doesn’t exactly remember them, but he can feel the pack bonds. He knows he’s supposed to know them. So he stares up at them, frowning, while they stare down at him.

“He’s so…” a curly-haired boy says.

“Freaking _adorable_ ,” a girl in a black leather miniskirt finishes. She looks like she’s going to bend down and pinch his cheeks, so Derek growls at her.

It’s such a _squeaky_ growl that Derek’s betas all snicker.

Derek lunges at them, claws out and fangs bared.

“Holy crap!” the biggest one says, a hand planted on Derek’s forehead to keep him at arm’s length. “Little help?”

“Hey!” Stiles yells suddenly. “Leave Derek alone!”

The big guy hardly has time to look up before Stiles is rushing toward him. He skids to a stop, his amber eyes blazing, and flings up his little hands. A ball of light shoots out across the room, and hits the big beta square in the chest. It sends him flying back against the wall.

The betas stare, jaws dropped.

Stiles stares down at his hands, wide-eyed. “Daddy!” he bellows suddenly. “Daddy, I’m like Harry Potter!”

 

***

 

Stiles is a wizard, which is totally unfair because Derek wants to be magic too.

“I’m going to get a _wand_ ,” Stiles whispers loudly to Derek, holding his hand tightly as the girl with the red hair tries to explain. “And an _owl_.”

Derek tries hard not to show how jealous he is.

“Stiles,” the girl says. “You’re not a wizard, you’re a spark. It’s different. And, until the other night, we didn’t even know you could _do_ proper magic. But when the witches attacked, intending to hurt you, you obviously did something that turned you and Derek back into children.”

Stiles wrinkles his nose at Derek.

Derek shrugs.

“Do you remember what you did?” Lydia asks.

Stiles chews his bottom lip and squirms.

Scott gives him an encouraging smile. “Come on, Stiles. I really need my best friend back, okay?”

“Ew,” Stiles says, reaching out and taking Derek’s hand. “ _Derek_ is my best friend.”

Derek smirks at Scott and flashes his best red alpha eyes.

 

***

 

A week later and John Stilinski is still raising his five-year-old kid. Again. Plus another kid. Who is a werewolf. Because what the hell is his life? And not that it isn’t great to see Stiles so happy—the last few months have been rough, and John hates to see his kid looking so damn tired all the time—but can’t he be happy and _quiet_? John’s already raised his hyper little monster once. He’s not sure he’s got the energy to do it again.

And at least Stiles didn’t have goddamn magic powers the first time around.

John takes the steps two at a time when he hears the bang. He makes it to the boys’ bedroom just in time to see the curtains explode into glitter, making it rain for the two little boys dancing underneath the window.

“Didn’t I put you two to bed an hour ago?” John asks them. “ _Twice_?”

“Derek’s an alpha wolf and alpha wolves don’t have to go to bed early!” Stiles says. “If you try and make him, he’ll probably rip your throat out. Right, Der?” He elbows Derek in the ribs. “Right?”

Derek goes pink and stares at the floor.

“Growl at him,” Stiles demands in a stage whisper.

“Bed,” John says sternly. “Both of you. _Now_.”

He doesn’t care if one of them is a spark and one of them is a werewolf. Nobody outranks the dad at bedtime. Not ever.

 

***

 

Scott definitely doesn’t like Derek. Derek can tell. Derek hasn’t decided yet if he should challenge Scott to a fight or not. The alpha wolf in him says he should. But also, Scott is kind of big? But also _also_ , Derek has more betas. So maybe he would win? He’s not really sure. In the meantime, he preens a little whenever Scott frowns at him, and makes a show of holding Stiles’s hand whenever Scott is around. And, after all his betas have picked him up so he can scent them properly, he hugs Stiles again until Stiles is the one whose scent is strongest.

“Do you want to be a grownup?” Stiles asks him one afternoon.

Derek flicks through the photos on Boyd’s phone. Derek looks really scary as a grownup alpha. Big and growly and _awesome_. He’s not a very smiley alpha though, like Mom is. _Was_.

Thinking about Mom makes Derek’s chest hurt.

There are pictures of Stiles on Boyd’s phone too. He looks kind of stupid. Stiles always looks kind of stupid. With his stupid grin and his stupid magic, and his stupid game where he needs to kiss Derek five whole times before they go to sleep at night.

Stiles is stupid, but Scott can’t have him.

Derek shrugs and keeps flicking through the photos. “Do you?”

“If I was a grownup, I could drive my Jeep,” Stiles says, and lifts his shirt up so he can lick the spot he dropped ketchup on earlier. “And also I could say rude words.”

“You have to be over thirty to say the f-word,” Derek tells him knowledgeably.

“What’s the f-word?” Stiles asks, wide-eyed.

“I don’t know it yet,” Derek says. “But you have to be over thirty to say it.”

Stiles leans against him for a moment, and they look at pictures of themselves. “Were we best friends when we were grownups, Der?”

“Yes,” Derek says with certainty, because he can’t imagine it any other way.

Stiles beams at him.

 

***

 

“We have a solution,” Lydia announces.

Stiles tries to see around her legs, because his cartoons are on. His cartoons!

“The witches hit you with a death spell,” Lydia says. “But it was a very specific sort of death spell. Without getting too complicated, the spell works by aging you rapidly until you die. You’ll age decades in seconds. You’ll be dead in less than a minute.”

“Ew,” Derek says.

“But _Stiles_ ,” Lydia continues, saying his name like it’s a spell itself. Stiles looks up with a smile. “Stiles did something very amazing. He reversed the spell as they cast it. Except he reversed it just a smidgen too far.”

Stiles inspects the scab on his knee.

Lydia produces a spray bottle from her handbag. “Once we isolated the spell, Deaton was able to come up with antidote. One little spray of this, and by tomorrow you’ll both be back to normal.”

“Stiles was never normal,” Daddy says wryly from the couch, and reaches out to scruff Stiles’s hair. Then he scruffs Derek’s too.

Stiles giggles, and launches himself into Daddy’s lap for a hug.

Lydia puts the bottle down, and leaves them to it.

 

***

 

“Do you want to be grown up again?” Derek asks that night when they’re sharing a bubble bath.

Stiles makes a cone head out of bubbles. Maybe it’s supposed to be a wizard’s hat. “I want to know what the f-word is.”

Stiles’s dad snorts from the doorway. “I told you, kiddo, it’s fudge.”

“It’s _not_ fudge!”

Derek laughs and blows Stiles’s wizard’s hat away.

“Daddy?” Stiles splashes around for a second. “Are me and Der best friends when we’re grownups?”

Stiles’s dad leans in the doorway. He folds his arms over his chest and smiles. His eyes crinkle at the corners. “Best friends? You boys are _something_ , that’s for sure.”

Derek doesn’t really know what that means, but he likes the way Stiles’s dad is smiling when he says it.

 

***

 

Stiles’s dad reads Little Red Riding Hood to them that night, except it’s a version where Little Red Riding Hood is a boy who does magic, and the wolf isn’t _really_ big and bad, although he likes to pretend he is. Derek leans up against one side of Stiles’s dad, and Stiles leans up against the other side. Derek makes growly noises and flashes his eyes red, and Stiles makes the air sparkle like fireflies. And Stiles’s dad does all the voices.

“Love you, kiddo,” Stiles’s dad says, planting a kiss on Stiles’s forehead when he’s tucking them in. Derek gets a kiss as well. “Love you too, kiddo.”

He holds the spray bottle out.

Stiles squeezes his eyes shut and grins.

Derek copies him.

The spray smells a little bit like lavender.

Derek sneezes.

 

***

 

Nothing magic happens at first. Not like growing years in seconds or anything, but Stiles’s dad says they might be grownups in the morning. He tucks them in with the comforter, and Stiles puts his skinny arms around Derek’s neck.

“Kisses,” he demands.

He always demands kisses, and Derek knows he won’t shut up until he gets them. He’s so annoying he makes Derek’s wolf all growly. Stiles says he makes his wolf _purr_ , but that’s dumb. Wolves don’t purr.

Derek kisses him on the forehead, and then the left cheek, and then the right cheek, and then on the nose. He saves his last kiss for Stiles’s lips. Stiles tastes like toothpaste.

“You’re my best friend ever,” Stiles whispers to him.

Derek goes to sleep with a smile on his face.

Take that, Scott McCall!

 

***

 

Derek wakes up to the rasp of Stiles’s stubble against his throat. Derek tries to roll over to get free, and almost rolls right out of the bed. When did the bed get so narrow?

Right.

When two adults tried to share it.

Derek stares down at his body. And also Stiles’s.

Two _naked_ adults.

The jostling has woken Stiles as well. He blinks himself into wakefulness and makes an odd squeaking noise when he sees they’re both naked. He flings himself off Derek. “Pretty sure you weren’t this distracting when we bathed together last night!”

“Shut up, Stiles,” Derek mutters, and cringes a little as he thinks of everything that’s happened in the past week or so. The shared bubble baths. The digging holes in the garden like a pup. Forcing his betas to give him piggyback rides. But mostly the shared bubble baths. Derek forces himself to sit and swings his legs over the bed. The carpet is warm against his feet.

Jesus.

He just woke up naked with Stiles.

Derek has no idea how to even begin processing that.

Behind him, Stiles scrambles out of bed, dragging the comforter with him. “Um. Clothes. We definitely need clothes, right?”

He trails across to his dresser, and wrenches open the top drawer. Then slams it shut again when it turns out it’s full of clothes that would fit a five-year-old. He grumbles under his breath, pulls open the second drawer, and a moment later a pair of sweatpants hit Derek in the face.

Derek pulls them on quickly, his face burning.

“So, um,” Stiles says at last. When Derek risks a glance, he sees Stiles is also wearing sweatpants. “Awkwardest morning after ever, or awkwardest morning after ever?”

Derek can’t stop the wry smile from spreading over his face. “Yeah.”

“Okay, but it doesn’t have to be weird,” Stiles says. “Like, not _totally_ weird. We’re friends, right?”

“Best friends,” Derek murmurs, and then flushes as he realizes what he’s said.

“Yeah.” Stiles scratches his cheek and looks at the floor. When he looks up again, he’s smiling. “Sure. Why not? Best friends. I mean, I gave you half my last peanut butter cup.”

Derek huffs out a laugh. “Yeah.”

Stiles moves closer, and punches him gently in the shoulder. “So, best friends.”

Derek rises to his feet, reaching out to curl his fingers around Stiles’s slim hips.

Stiles’s face is bright red, his eyes wide.

Derek leans in slowly and presses his mouth to his forehead. Then his left cheek. Then his right cheek. Stiles is grinning widely by the time Derek kisses his nose. And then that grin has vanished, and he’s tilting his mouth up to meet Derek’s. The kiss is warm and sweet and Derek feels Stiles shiver as their mouths open and their tongues meet.

“Best friends,” Derek whispers as he ends the kiss.

Stiles smiles, then laughs, then hides his red face against Derek’s neck.

 

***

 

The sheriff is just leaving for work when Derek treads downstairs.

“Derek. Good to see you being you again.” He claps a warm hand on Derek’s shoulder.

“Thanks.” The word comes out a little stilted. “For, um, looking after me. I didn’t have anyone and—”

“You always have someone here, Derek. Okay? Always.” The sheriff’s expression is stern and fond at the same time. He smiles. “Besides, you were a hell of a lot easier to handle than Stiles.”

Derek ducks his head and smiles.

“Dinner’s at seven,” the sheriff tells him. “You and Stiles are cooking. You owe me.”

Derek figures that’s the truth.

 

***

 

He doesn’t remember where he parked his car the last time he drove it, and someone’s probably moved it by now anyway, so Derek heads off for the loft on foot. He hasn’t even cleared the Stilinskis’ front lawn when he hears Stiles’s bedroom window opening.

“Derek! Hey, Derek!”

He turns around to see Stiles waving at him frantically. “What?”

“The f-word!” Stiles yells out, face bright with a grin. “It’s fuck!”

“I know it is, Stiles,” Derek tells him.

“I’m yelling it even though I’m not thirty! _Fuck_!”

“I can hear you yelling it,” Derek tells him. “So can your neighbors.”

“Fuck!” Stiles’s laugh is loud. “ _Fuck_!”

Derek turns and leaves before someone calls the cops.

Stiles is stupid.

Stiles is _still_ stupid.

And he’s all Derek’s.

Derek grins to himself as he heads for the loft.

 


	28. Super

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For @loofalover on Tumblr, who asked: "i have a prompt: since tyler hoechlin's gonna be on cbs's supergirl, how about sterek with superman!derek? thank you!"
> 
> Pairing: Derek/Stiles

“Jeez, Derek,” Stiles says, bringing up the front page of the Beacon Hills Herald on his tablet. “ _Again_?”

Derek has the decency to look a little shamefaced. “Stiles, I cover local politics, not…” He waves his hand at the tablet. “ _That_.”

“What? Actual _news_?”

Derek rolls his eyes at the teasing tone, and Stiles worries for a second that he’s taken it too far.

“Not that the council vote on changing the zoning restrictions on Maple Street isn’t totally exciting,” he adds, wrinkling his nose despite himself.

Derek smiles at him, and sets a cup of juice down on their rickety little kitchen table. “Opening it up to residential? Have you seen some of the loft spaces in the old factories down there? We could move out of here and get somewhere with a decent square footage. How great would that be?”

“That would be awesome.” Stiles tilts his head up for a quick kiss.

Stiles loves Derek to death, but he really is the most boring boyfriend ever.

 

***

 

The sheriff is old school. No tablet for him. When Stiles arrives at his office, his dad is reading an actual newspaper, the pages crinkling as he shakes them out straight.

“Seen this?” John asks, setting the newspaper down and pointing at the front cover.

SUPERMAN FOILS BANK HEIST.

“Yep,” Stiles tells him. There’s a kind of blurry picture of Superman flying— _flying_!—right out of the bank with a hostage in his arms. “I also saw the three assholes in the holding cells on my way in. Let me guess, he trussed them up and dumped them right on our doorstep?”

“Show pony,” John mutters.

Stiles laughs. “Dad, come on! He’s a superhero! Don’t go getting all grouchy and jealous!”

John snorts. “I see that Derek missed the scoop again.”

Stiles tries to sound supportive. “Derek covers local politics, Dad. You know that.”

“Oh, you mean the local politics that happen in the town hall right across the road from the bank?” John jabs his finger at the headline. “This Lydia woman beats him every time.”

“Lois,” Stiles corrects, and sips his coffee.

“What?”

“It’s Lois, not Lydia.”

John frowns. “Who am I thinking of then?”

“The strawberry blonde goddess I was in love with since third grade?” Stiles hazards.

“Oh, right.” John looks a little pensive. “Whatever happened to her?”

“She’s being brilliant and awesome at the University of Metropolis,” Stiles tells him. “And still ignoring me on Facebook.”

“Ah,” John says.

“Anyway. Are we here to talk about Derek’s lackluster career, or mine?”

John folds the paper up. “Well, now that you mention it.”

Stiles tries to be cool about it, he really does, but his dad is wearing a combined Dad-and-Sheriff look that makes Stiles squirm like a guilty three-year-old.

“Three complaints in a month, Stiles,” John says sternly. “That’s more than most of my deputies get in a year!”

“But two of them are from Jackson Whittemore, and you know he’s just being a douche!”

“And the one from Mrs. Masterson?”

“That was an accident!”

“You ran over her letterbox.”

“Only because I was avoiding her cat!”

“Why were you even driving on the sidewalk?”

“Um,” Stiles says, and wracks his brain for an excuse he just doesn’t have. Because “to prove to Reyes that I could” probably isn’t going to work. “Okay, so. It’s kind of a long story.”

His dad sighs, and settles in with a look on his face that says he knows this is going to be total bullshit.

 

***

 

“I got takeout!” Stiles yells that evening, shoving the door open. “But probably our last one for a while since I’m stuck on desk duty for the next month and banned from picking up any overtime, and also I owe Mrs. Masterson two hundred dollars for a new letterbox.”

The salary of a deputy sheriff is not exactly a big one. Stiles kind of relies on picking up a few extra hours here and there.

Derek stands up from where he’s been working on the little desk in the cramped living space of their apartment. He shoves his glasses up his nose. “What sort of letterbox costs two hundred dollars?”

“I know, right?” Stiles grumbles, letting Derek divest him of the takeout bags. “The old woman’s totally scamming me.”

Derek’s smile is soft and fond.

Stiles heads to the bedroom to get changed out of his uniform and into his sweatpants. When he gets back to the kitchen, Derek is setting out two plates and a selection of their mismatched cutlery.

“So,” Stiles says a few minutes later, though a mouthful of kung pao chicken, “did you mean what you said about looking at lofts on Maple? I mean, like, it might be good to have somewhere big enough to have an actual dining table. And invite people over and stuff.”

“It would be good,” Derek says. “And, um, maybe we could look at buying instead of renting?”

Stiles’s jaw drops open. “What?”

Derek’s ears go a little pink. “I mean, we should buy a place together. If you want.”

“That’s, um, that’s…wow.”

“Too big of a step?” Derek looks worried.

Maybe?

But also, no. Of course not. Stiles knew a week into dating Derek Hale that this was the guy he wants to spend his whole life with. This shy, awkward guy who has somehow managed to make it this far through life without even realizing how ridiculously hot he is. This sweet, polite guy from Kansas, who helps their neighbors carry their groceries up the stairs, and fixes their leaking taps for them when the building super has pulled one of his magical disappearing acts. This totally earnest guy who actually likes covering local politics and gets more excited over the announcement of a new children’s playground than he does over the latest headlines about some high-profile crime.

Stiles wants to climb right over the table and kiss the hell out of him. Then he thinks about the mess that would make, and settles for reaching out and taking his hand instead.

“Derek Hale,” he says. “I love you. Let’s buy a place together.”

Derek’s smile is the most beautiful thing in the universe.

 

***

 

Stiles is happy to be finally off desk duty. This is what he signed up for, right here. Driving around the streets at night, poking into dark corners, and basically being a curious, suspicious-minded busybody. It’s the role he was born to play, actually. And it’s not like Beacon Hills is a hotbed of dastardly criminal activity. Especially not with Superman turning up all the time. His dad might not be a fan, but Stiles is. Stiles has even _seen_ Superman a few times. Once, at a traffic accident, he was close enough to even _talk_ to him, except he didn’t because his brain did that thing when he shut down. It was lucky, really. He probably would have said something dumb about how Batman was actually cooler. Anyway, instead he’d watched as Superman bent back a hunk of twisted metal that had formerly been a car, and lifted an unconscious child out of the wreckage. It had been _awesome_.

It had even made the front page of the paper, since of course Lois and her photographer had turned up to capture the action. Stiles’s left arm made the picture. Luckily his slack-jawed face didn’t. And Derek? Well, Derek had been covering a Rotary meeting. Stiles hadn’t even known Rotary was still a _thing_.

Derek’s never going to win a Pulitzer, just saying. Which is okay, because it would look kind of out of place on their bookshelf next to Stiles’s video games and collection of action figures.

Stiles turns down Main Street, traveling at a crawl. It’s the middle of the night and the middle of the week. There’s nobody about. At least, there shouldn’t be. Which is why Stiles brakes when he sees the van parked in the alley beside the bank.

It’s a white van with the logo of a cleaning service on the side. A cleaning service Stiles has never heard of.

He grabs his radio. “Hey, Parrish?”

Correct radio procedure is not one of Stiles’s strong points.

“Yep?”

It’s not one of Parrish’s either.

“I’m off at the bank. There’s a van here that says Industrial Cleaning Services. I’m gonna check it out.”

“Okay, Stiles. I’ll get Reyes to swing by too.”

“Cool bananas.”

Stiles gets out of the car and walks slowly down the alley toward the van.

Situational awareness _is_ one of Stiles’s strong points. The van door opens as he approaches, and he hears footsteps coming from behind him as well, and he knows that he’s suddenly in a world of fucking trouble. Knowing it doesn’t make a difference though. He doesn’t even have time to reach for his gun before some asshole smacks him over the back of the head and it’s lights out.

 

***

 

When he blinks himself awake, Stiles discovers he’s sitting just outside the entrance to the bank vault. He’s handcuffed to the barred doors between the vault entrance and the basement elevator. There are two men down here with him, and their attention is focused almost solely on the vault doors, and on the plastic explosives they’re jamming into the holes they’ve drilled around it.

Well, that can’t be a good thing.

It takes a little while for one of them to notice him.

“Cop’s awake,” the first guy says.

The second guy approaches him. He’s holding Stiles’s radio. “Here’s what’s gonna happen. You tell the other cops to back off, and we don’t shoot you. Got it?”

It’s a simple plan, and one Stiles can get behind.

He waits until the guy presses the button on the radio. “Parrish?”

“Stiles!”

“I’m in the bank. I’m being held hostage. If anyone tries to come in, they’ll shoot me.”

The guy doesn’t even give Parrish a chance to respond. Just twists the knob on the radio that turns it off.

Stiles slumps back against the bars. This was not how he intended his night to go. He was going to check out Maple Street and imagine he and Derek living there, and then he was going to meet Reyes for a burger at the twenty-four hour diner on Oak, and then he was going to win ten bucks because they have a long-standing bet that he can’t drink a milkshake as big as his head in under thirty seconds. And then he was going to go home to Derek, and snuggle up with him for that one glorious hour between Stiles getting home and Derek having to leave for work. That one glorious naked hour.

Stiles wants an entire lifetime of those.

He watches as the guys do whatever it is they’re doing with their plastic explosives and their wires. Then he watches as they retreat past him, rounding the corner into what Stiles guesses leads to the utility rooms or whatever. Leaving Stiles sitting there, right in the fucking blast zone.

“Hey!” he yells. “Hey, come on!”

Oh _shit_.

A counter on the explosives starts to beep.

“Hey!” he yells again. “You can’t just fucking _leave_ me here!”

He struggles uselessly against the cuffs, tears streaming down his face, because this is how he dies. Right here, right now, and he’s not going to see his dad again, and he’s not going to see _Derek_ again, and there is absolutely nothing he can do about it. He draws his knees up, tries to curl over and hide his face. His heart is beating fast enough to escape his chest, and this is it. This is how he dies.

There’s a moment of awful, sudden silence as the counter stops beeping.

A moment of stillness.

And then the world rips apart at the seams.

 

***

 

He’s dead. He’s dead. He’s dead.

Except, if he’s dead, where’s his bright tunnel of light? Stiles blinks, but all he can see is dust and smoke. There’s a figure crouched in front of him. Just a formless shape at first, but as the dust settles and Stiles’s vision clears he sees that it’s a man. A man in a blue suit that clings to his stupidly built body. He’s holding his red cape out to the sides like it’s a shield. Or like it’s wings, and he’s a mama bird protecting a fragile little fledgling from harm. Which in this case is the remains of the vault door that were blasted toward Stiles on the wave of the explosion. He has dark hair and beautiful eyes, and a single curl in the middle of his forehead that Stiles just wants to _touch_.

“H-hey, Superman,” he says. _Do not say Batman is cooler. Do_ not _say it._

“Let’s get you out of here, Deputy Stilinski,” Superman says, and if his voice doesn’t melt Stiles, then the way he leans over him and then reaches around to just snap the cuffs does. Stiles is as shaky on his feet as a newborn gazelle when Superman helps him stand.

“I, um,” he says, and then sort of collapses.

Superman sweeps one arm under him, and suddenly he’s in a bridal carry, and _omigod it’s Superman!_

Superman looks up, and Stiles follows the direction of his gaze. And that’s when he realizes the explosion has brought down the floor above them, and hell, even the roof, and he can see starlight though the dust and the smoke.

“Ready?” Superman asks him with a smile.

Holy shit, _yes_.

And suddenly they’re _flying_.

 

***

 

Derek bursts into the hospital room, hip-checking a tray of instruments and sending them scattering all over the floor.

“I’m so sorry!” he exclaims, shoving his glasses up his nose before he gets down on his hands and knees to start cleaning up the mess. Then he springs to his feet again, looking pink and rumpled, and rushes to Stiles’s side.

“Are you okay, Stiles?” His eyes are wide with worry. “Your dad called and said you were in an _explosion_?”

“I’m okay,” Stiles assures him with a dopey smile. “Superman saved me.”

“Oh, thank God,” Derek says, and squeezes his hand tightly.

“Der, when I get out of here, we’re going looking at lofts on Maple, okay? No more waiting. No more putting it off. I want to buy a place with you, and I want to come home to it every single day.”

Derek’s answering smile is beautiful.

 

***

 

“I just don’t get it,” Stiles says a few months later. “I mean, you hang out with Lois all the time, right?”

Derek considers that for a moment. “Not _all_ the time.”

“But a lot of the time.” Stiles looks up from the catalog he’s been flipping through. They’ve moved in now, and they’re decorating. They are officially at the decorating stage of the relationship. Stiles can only presume the next step is buying a shelter dog together. He’s really looking forward to that part. It’s a lot more exciting than choosing dinner sets. “And Lois always sees Superman. She’s even interviewed him! So how come you’ve never seen him?”

Derek shrugs. “I don’t know. I’m not really that interested, to be honest.”

“Okay. So.” Stiles sets the catalog aside. “I know that you’re really into stuff like council policy and grassroots activism and those old people who are rehabilitating the Preserve, but, like purely objectively, Superman is _interesting_. You’re not allowed to be not interested in Superman. It’s like being not interested in fireworks. Or space travel. Or yetis.”

Derek looks at him oddly. “Yetis?”

“Like, I mean, if a yeti suddenly appeared, that would be _interesting_ , right?”

“I suppose,” Derek says very slowly, like he’s agreeing with a crazy person.

“So there,” Stiles says. “You must be just a little bit interested in Superman.”

Derek slips into his thoughtful expression, and then smiles. “I’m more interested in _you_.”

“You’re hopeless!” Stiles crows, caught between exasperation and delight, and throws a cushion at him.

 

***

 

Sometimes Stiles dreams he’s flying.

It should be terrifying, but he’s never felt safer.

And then, when he wakes up snuggled close to Derek, it takes a few minutes to shake off the guilt.

It doesn’t matter, right?

Everyone’s got a crush on Superman.

 

***

 

Stiles proposes to Derek on the night of their housewarming, surrounded by their friends and colleagues. It’s not something he planned. In fact, he gives Derek an engagement ring made out of the twist tie off a bread bag. Derek laughs so hard his glasses fog up.

Stiles gets tipsy on cheap champagne, and almost breaks one of the new plates from the dinner set except Derek catches it in time. Who knew he had ninja reflexes? When everyone leaves, Stiles drags Derek out onto the balcony and makes him slow dance with him.

It’s romantic as _fuck_.

Then Derek goes inside to get him a glass of water, and that’s when Stiles sees it.

A _kitten_.

A sad, cold, shivering little kitten on the balcony next to theirs.

“Oh, hey, kitty,” he says. The loft next door is empty, so he has no idea how the kitten even got onto the balcony. But it’s stuck there now, and it looks so hungry and sad. Stiles leans out over the railing and reaches out for it.

“Jump!” he tells it. “Jump, and I’ll catch you.”

But clearly the kitten doesn’t speak English.

Stiles is slightly impaired from all the cheap champagne he’s drunk. Like, looking back, the smart thing would have been to go back inside, to go to the other loft, and to break in to get to the kitten. Except that doesn’t even occur to him. What occurs to him is that it’s only a couple of feet, and he can make it.

He totally can.

He climbs over the railing and reaches out.

“Stiles?” Derek calls from inside. “Do you want— _Stiles_!”

And suddenly Stiles is slipping, and then he’s falling.

 

***

 

Strong arms catch him before he hits the ground.

“Holy shit,” he whispers. He’s going to be sick. “Holy shit.”

Superman is holding him, and they’re rising slowly back up toward the balcony.

“You saved me,” Stiles breathes. “ _Again_.”

“You should watch your step, Deputy,” Superman says.

“Y-yeah,” Stiles agrees.

He has such beautiful eyes. Stiles could lose himself in those eyes.

Superman sets them both down on the balcony again. Stiles glances around for Derek, but he’s not there. He must have raced downstairs when Stiles fell, and—

Stiles’s fingers snag against Superman’s. Something scratches him, and he looks down.

There’s a tiny little twisted piece of plastic-coated wire around Superman’s ring finger.

Holy _shit_.

Stiles starts to laugh.

“Deputy?” Superman asks.

Stiles smacks him in the chest. “Don’t even, you asshole!”

Superman’s jaw drops.

“Oh, my fucking God.” Stiles bites his lip and then, for good measure, smacks Superman again. It has about the same effect as smacking a solid brick wall. “Do you know how fucking guilty I felt for crushing on you, Derek? You fucking asshole!”

“Stiles…”

How did he never see it? How the fuck did _nobody_ ever see it? The difference between them is literally a pair of glasses, a weird costume, and a curl of hair. Stiles has seen more convincing makeover shows on daytime television.

“Holy fuck. I’m engaged to Superman!”

Superman—Derek—has the decency to look a little shamefaced. “I can explain.”

“Can you?” Stiles asks. “Can you really?”

“I can _possibly_ explain,” Derek says.

Stiles exhales heavily, and jabs his finger into Derek’s chest. “First, the kitten. Then the explanation.”

Derek steps over to the other balcony as easily as breathing, and returns with the trembling ball of fuzz cupped in his hands.

“I’m engaged to Superman,” Stiles whispers, his disbelieving smile broadening into an impossibly wide grin.

 

***

 

Derek Hale is _not_ the most boring boyfriend ever. Derek Hale is Superman. And Stiles has totally hit that, and intends to keep hitting that for the rest of his natural life. He doesn’t care if Derek talks too much about council meetings and zoning issues and city budgets. They even join the group of old people rehabilitating the Preserve, and turn up every Sunday morning to collect trash and replant native trees. And zoning _is_ interesting. Affordable housing is interesting. These are all things that can change the quality of people’s lives just as much as any superhero can.

They adopt a shelter dog. It becomes best friends with the kitten.

They live a small town life, with small town dreams and small town ambitions.

And some nights, when Stiles isn’t working and Derek isn’t saving innocent lives, Derek takes Stiles by the hand and they fly.

 


	29. Unsophisticated

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pairing: Stiles/Peter

 

For a moment all Peter can hear is a high-pitched buzzing noise in his ears. This, apparently, is what utter disbelief sounds like. Peter sets his tablet down on the counter, and turns very slowly to face Stiles.

“Did you seriously just ask me if there is such a thing as a sophisticated Batman shirt?”

Stiles has the scant decency to look at least a little shamefaced. “Um… yes?”

Oh dear God. This boy will be the death of Peter.

Well, he _has_ been, technically, that one time, but now it’s definitely more of a death by a thousand cuts type of scenario. Every minute spent in his company makes Peter bleed just a little more. There’s the way he sits with his feet on the coffee table when he watches TV, his dirty Converse _right there_ where they sometimes eat food. The way he leaves Cheeto-dust fingerprints on Peter’s refrigerator door. The way he thinks _The Ride of the Valkyrie_ is from Bugs Bunny. The way he can’t tell the difference between a good vintage of wine and something that comes in a carton. The way he thinks his off-key singing in any way adds to the ambience of a given situation, and _especially_ the way he dresses like the unwanted child of a lumberjack and a fucking hobo.

Stiles Stilinski is an uncultured, unsophisticated, unmitigated _disaster_ of a human being.

“You are not wearing a Batman shirt to dinner, Stiles. I know you get some kind of weird kick out of trying to order curly fries at a place that has actually earned Michelin stars, but I have to draw the line somewhere.”

Stiles’s Converse squeak on the floor as he moves toward Peter—the boy has apparently never learned to lift his feet when he walks—and his mouth turns up in a wicked little grin. “You are such a snob, Peter. You know that?”

Peter looks him up and down. “There’s nothing wrong with enjoying the finer things in life.”

“Like me?” Stiles asks, and swipes his tongue over his bottom lip.

“Well,” Peter says, not willing to let the brat win this round, “not dressed like _that_.”

 

***

 

Stiles whines and complains the entire time at dinner, tugging at his tie like it’s actually attempting to strangle him, and wriggling in his jacket like it’s too tight. It’s not, of course. It’s the perfect cut for his slender frame. Peter will never understand why Stiles likes to smother himself in baggy flannel, when something form-fitted makes him look so fucking delicious.

All that wriggling and whining sets Peter’s teeth on edge. And possibly not in the way Stiles is intending.

He hands his credit card over to the server, and then leans across the table. “Go to the bathroom.”

Stiles wrinkles his nose. “What?”

“Go to the bathroom, Stiles.”

“But I don’t have to… _oh_.” Stiles’s face turns red, and he scurries away from the table.

Peter finishes his wine, accepts his card back, and leaves a generous tip for the staff. Particularly whoever has to clean the bathroom later. Then he threads his way through the tables, and moves down the corridor to the bathroom. He pushes the door open.

Stiles is lingering by the counter, fiddling with the fancy hand washes and towels. Peter stalks toward him, and uses his arms to bracket him in. He meets Stiles’s gaze in the reflection in the mirror. Stiles is round-eyed and pink-cheeked.

“You can’t do this in the bathroom at McDonalds, can you?” Peter asks him, and slides a hand down the front of Stiles’s slim-fitting pants.

Stiles bucks back against him. “Peter! I’m pretty sure you can’t do this here either!”

Peter pops the button on his fly and works the zipper down. Stiles is hard and hot in his hand. “Are you going to tell me to stop?”

Stiles shudders, and drops his head back on Peter’s shoulder. “I’m going to tell you I really don’t want my dad to arrest me!”

Peter turns his head to nuzzle against Stiles’s throat. Makes sure he hints at the promise of fangs. “You’d better come fast then.”

It’s ridiculous how obedient Stiles can be if there’s a promise of coming on the line. Peter grinds against him as he jerks him off, and Stiles is a moaning, sweaty mess. His dick is hard and wet in Peter’s knowing grip. It only takes a few minutes, and the judicious press of a thumb against the head of his dick, and Stiles is shuddering and gasping between Peter and the counter as he comes.

“You look beautiful, sweetheart,” Peter tells him in the mirror.

Stiles blinks back at him dozily, his pupils blown wide.

Peter plucks one of the soft towels from the perfectly-arranged basket on the counter beside the sink. He raises his eyebrows. “At McDonalds, you’d have to use a _napkin_.”

Stiles laughs breathlessly.

 

***

 

Stiles Stilinski is an uncultured, unsophisticated, unmitigated _disaster_ of a human being, and Peter is very much in love with him. Every little grubby mark the boy leaves inside his pristine apartment is a reminder that Peter’s not untouched anymore, and not untouchable. It’s a reminder that it’s imperfections that bring the beauty in life into sharp relief.

When Stiles sheds off his slim, sticky suit pants when they get home from dinner, Peter wordlessly hands him a pair of sleep pants and a t-shirt to get changed into. Stiles shakes out the shirt curiously, and then looks over at Peter, mouth pulled wide in a grin.

“You got me a Batman shirt!”

Peter shrugs. “It’s not exactly sophisticated, but…”

“But?” Stiles asks, eyes bright with delight.

Peter pulls him close and kisses his temple. “But it suits you, sweetheart.”

 


	30. Sanctuary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pairing: pre-slash. Sterek or Steter, you decide!
> 
> *** For those of you who want to know what I decided, check out the extended story over here:[Sanctuary](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7740541?view_full_work=true) ***

On his fourth day living in Beacon Hills, Stiles wakes up when his dad raps on his bedroom door. “Stiles! Get out of bed. You’re going to school!”

So that’s where they are in the push-and-pull of their father-son relationship today. His dad has reached the I Am Not Fucking Around stage again. A few more days and he’ll be right back at the I Am Not Going To Push You stage. Which Stiles likes a lot more than the I Can’t Bear To Even Look At You one that’s defined most of the last eight months, actually.

Everything hurts when he levers himself out of bed, but Stiles is used to that. It always takes a while to get moving again after everything’s seized up overnight. He doesn’t bother shower. Just drags some fresh clothes out of one of his unpacked boxes and pulls them on. His red hoodie is last. He pulls the hood up even though he’s still in the house, and thinks that no, no he can’t go to school today.

He heads downstairs.

When was the last time he was in the kitchen? Yesterday? The day before? His dad has made good progress unpacking. It takes Stiles three attempts to figure out where the glasses live now.

He pours himself an orange juice while his dad digs out the cereal.

“I thought I’d drive you to school,” his dad says. “Come to administration with you and get things explained.”

He waves vaguely.

“I can drive myself.” He has a Jeep now. He hasn’t really checked it out, but it was part of his dad’s bribery attempt to move them here to Beacon Hills.

“You’re not driving that thing until I get it checked out properly,” his dad tells him.

It’s just an excuse, and they both know it. If his dad doesn’t literally escort him into the school, there’s no way he’s going.

“Dad,” Stiles says, his voice wavering.

“No.” John Stilinski’s face is set. “You need to do this, Stiles. And the longer you wait, the harder it will get.”

Stiles stares down at his cereal so his dad doesn’t see his tears. “It’s gonna suck, though.”

His dad reaches out and clasps a hand around Stiles’s, making his spoon clatter against the table. “Come on, kid. Have you forgotten how tough you are?”

 _No_ , Stiles thinks, _but have you forgotten how much of a freak I am?_

 

***

 

The woman at the school office smiles too brightly when she sees Stiles, and a fraction too late. Stiles hunches over on the plastic chair and runs his tongue along the inside of his lower lip. There’s a line of scar tissue there that feels as thick as rope. Stiles is introduced to the principal, the vice-principal, and the guidance counselor. They all assure him and his dad of the school’s anti-bullying policy, and of taking into consideration the chunk of time Stiles missed at his last school, and of how BHHS is all about community and inclusiveness and a hundred other things that won’t count for shit once Stiles is in an actual classroom. Or worse, a locker room.

His dad gives him a hug and promises that he can call him if he needs anything.

And Stiles wants to tell him that yeah, he needs to not be _here_ , but instead he nods and watches his dad, somehow unfamiliar to him in that tan uniform instead of dark blue, heading for the exit.

Stiles’s first class is Chemistry.

He sidles into the classroom and hands the teacher his pass for being late.

“Mr…” the teacher says, and frowns at the name. “Mr. _Stilinski_. Welcome to Beacon Hills. This is a classroom, not a crack house. Take your hood off.”

Stiles’s blood turns to ice.

“Holy shit,” one of the kids says in the silence that follows. “What happened to his _face_?”

 

***

 

What happened is that Detective John Stilinski was on a case. Some cartel or whatever. Stiles didn’t know the details, however much he badgered his dad. But these guys were scary, okay? Scary enough that everyone working the case, and their families, got a list of security tips. Check your car before you start it. Vary your day-to-day routine. Take a different route home. Make sure nobody is following you. Don’t answer your door unless you know who it is.

Don’t answer your door unless you know who it is.

Don’t--

When the doorbell rang, his dad wasn’t home but Stiles was expecting a parcel delivery.

When it was over, they dragged him onto the balcony of the third floor apartment where he lived and tipped him over the edge.

 

***

 

Stiles leaves the school at a run, tears blurring his vision, and panic threatening to choke him, to smother him. He doesn’t have a car, and he doesn’t even know how to get to the house from here, or to the Sheriff’s Station. He finds himself on a field behind the school, and he just needs to get away, and there are trees. A forest to lose himself in, and that’s what he needs right now. He needs to be alone.

He stumbles toward the trees, his hood pulled forward over his face.

 

***

 

Okay.

Stupid.

Stiles is pretty sure he’s lost. It’s only been a few hours, so his dad won’t be missing him yet, unless the school has called, but there aren’t any missed calls on his phone, and he still has a signal, so he’s not _totally_ lost, right? His phone has GPS. Stiles would just rather find his own way out of the woods than have his dad have to organize a retrieval. Like today is enough of a disaster already, without adding a search and rescue to it.

He’s _not_ going back to school.

He sits down on a moss-covered log, and shivers in the cool. He fiddles with his phone, catching glimpses of his face in the silver cover as he turns it over in his hands. He hasn’t really looked that much at his face since it happened. Just a quick glimpse every now and then. It shocks him, every time, how horrible it is. Not that he was ever a fucking supermodel or anything--ha!--but now he looks like he’s the origin story of a supervillian or something.

And every time he sees the scars, he _feels_ it all over again. Every cut. Skin and muscle forced to split. The blade punching through his cheek. The strength behind it.

His heart starts beating faster, and he drops his phone onto the ground before he’s tempted to look.

He leans over, taking deep breaths and trying to remember to hold them.

It’s quiet here. Peaceful.

He doesn’t want to go back. He wants to stay here, and just…just _stop_. Just cease. Just close his eyes and never have to open them again.

Stiles has spent the last eight months in therapy. He knows what passive suicidal ideation is. He’s just never been brave enough to ask his therapists why they think it’s such a bad idea. Like, what would it matter if he just stopped? If everything just stopped? And then he thinks of the guilt that’s slowly been crushing his dad for the last eight months, and knows he could never leave his dad. Not like that.

He takes another deep breath and holds it.

Feels his building panic recede at last.

Okay.

Okay, so he needs to call his dad, probably.

He reaches down for his phone, except it’s not there. It’s not _there_. He drops to his hands and knees and scrabbles through the leaf litter looking for it. He dropped it, he didn’t throw it, but it’s not fucking there.

No. He’s not going to panic about this. He just needs to calm down, and take another look, because--

A twig breaks behind him, as sharp and dry as the snapping of a bone. Stiles spins around, landing on his ass on the damp ground.

The wolf steps forward.

 

***

 

“No,” Stiles tells the universe. “No, because I just fucking decided that I wasn’t going to kill myself, so you don’t get to _do_ this!”

The wolf growls at him, thin lips lifting to reveal massive fangs.

 _Fuck_.

 

***

 

You don’t run from wolves. Or is that bears? Stiles wishes he could remember. He also wishes he wasn’t on his ass, so he could climb a tree or something. But he’s pretty sure that any sudden movement will result in his immediate painful death.

He draws his legs up very slowly, and curls his arms around them. Buries his face in his knees, and squeezes his eyes shut.

Maybe if he gives it a few minutes, the wolf will get bored and go away?

A huff of hot breath against his shaking hands.

Shit.

It’s right _there_.

 

***

 

“We’re sending your dad a message, kid,” one of the guys said when Stiles begged them to stop.

It’s not the message they intended to send, he guesses. He wasn’t supposed to survive the drop to the ground. But it was still a message. Stiles sees it every single time his dad looks at him.

So much fucking guilt.

It’s unbearable, for both of them. Sometimes, at night, Stiles pretends to be asleep when his dad comes into his room and sits on his bed and strokes his hair like he’s a little kid. He listens to his dad’s breath hitch, and it takes everything he has not to cry as well.

Sometimes he wakes screaming from his nightmares, and his dad has to hold him down, his voice breaking every time he promises over and over again that he’s safe now. He’s safe. It’s over.

But it’s never really over, is it? Not when Stiles still has to shower with a towel over the bathroom mirror.

Not when every single day someone looks at him twice, or inhales sharply, or says, right in the middle of Chemistry, “Holy shit. What happened to his _face_?”

 

***

 

When the wolf clamps its jaws firmly around Stiles’s wrist, tugging his arm free, Stiles is pretty sure it’s some sort of prelude to attack. Except all that happens is the wolf tugs gently, and growls softly when Stiles doesn’t move.

“What?” Stiles asks it, voice shaky with tears. “You want me to get up?”

The wolf tugs his wrist again.

Stiles climbs awkwardly to his feet.

The wolf doesn’t release its grip. Just tugs again, and pulls Stiles into a stumbling walk.

 

***

 

“You’re not going to eat me, are you?” Stiles asks some time later.

The wolf makes a chuffing sound, and releases his wrist at last. Wolf drool. Stiles wipes it on his hoodie.

“Where are we going?” Stiles asks, peering around the woods. It looks exactly the same as the last mile did, but Stiles is a city kid. Not enough of a city kid to think that what’s happening here is in any way normal, but hey, he’ll take it. The wolf doesn’t want to tear his throat out, and that’s fine with Stiles.

The wolf trots forward a few feet, and then stops and turns to look at Stiles. It tilts it head on an angle.

“Yeah, yeah,” Stiles tells it, a smile spreading over his face despite himself. “I’m coming.”

 

***

 

They come at last to a chain link fence, and walk along it until they reach a gate. There’s a faded sign on the gate that says HALE WOLF SANCTUARY.

“You brought me to a wolf sanctuary?” Stiles asks the wolf. “Seriously, dude?”

The wolf growls at him, then lifts it head and _howls_.

The sound sends shivers down Stiles’s spine. It’s so loud. It feels like it echoes, even though there’s nothing for the sound to really bounce off. Just trees. But it’s incredible, and more than a little terrifying.

Moments later, there’s a woman running toward them from the other side of the fence. She’s dark-haired, maybe in her twenties, and she’s wearing a khaki shirt with the same logo as the sign.

“You got out _again_?” she demands, unchaining the gate, and Stiles realizes that she’s talking to the wolf. “Mom is going to be pissed!”

The wolf huffs.

The girl flushes as she notices Stiles, like she suddenly remembers how weird it is to be talking to a wolf. Like Stiles is in any position to judge. Her gaze travels over his face, but there’s no sudden start of pity or revulsion.

“Hi,” she says, pushing the gate open. “I’m Laura. Laura Hale.”

“Stiles Stilinski,” he says. “I, um, got lost in the woods, and I think your wolf rescued me?”

Laura knocks the wolf with her knee as it sidles past her. “Yeah, he does that.”

The wolf growls and nips the air beside her.

“Troublemaker,” Laura tells it, and then smiles at Stiles. “You want to come up to the house? Make a phone call?”

Stiles toys with the strings on his hoodie nervously. “Yeah. Please.”

The wolf walks with them all the way to the house.

 

***

 

His dad is not happy that Stiles ran away from school.

“I said if you needed me, you _call_ me.”

He’s also not happy about the cost of replacing Stiles’s lost phone, but promises they’ll go and get a new one on the weekend. Stiles doesn’t complain. Who has he got to call anyway?

He is happy to meet Talia Hale though, Laura’s mom, especially when she tells him they’re looking for volunteers to help out at the sanctuary. Stiles finds himself volunteered almost immediately, but he doesn’t mind that much. Wolves are cool, right? And he’d kind of like to see his wolf again. And Laura tells him that next time he comes over he can meet the rest of the family. Some of them are at work in town now, and some are at school, and her Uncle Peter and her brother Derek are, vaguely, _around_. Stiles figures that means they’re doing whatever it is that needs doing in a wolf sanctuary every day.

Stiles isn’t that great with meeting new people, but Laura and Talia seem nice, and it will be cool to come out here all the time and learn more about wolves and stuff. So yeah, he figures he can handle meeting the rest of the Hales.

He promises to come back the next afternoon for a proper tour of the place.

He and his dad drive back into town. Stiles waits in the car while his dad picks up pizza for an early dinner, and tugs his hood forward. It feels too warm and almost restrictive after his hours in the woods, feeling the breeze tickle the back of his neck.

Maybe he won’t wear it all the time. Like, just around the house and stuff.

“So a _wolf_ saved you?” his dad asks later when they’re finishing the pizza.

Stiles shoves a piece of pepperoni in his mouth. “That’s weird, right? I guess they’re like domesticated or something? Can you even domesticate a wolf?”

“Hell if I know,” his dad says, smiling, and Stiles realizes this might be the first conversation they’ve had in months that isn’t about his injuries or his recovery or his future.

“Did we unpack the DVDs yet?” he asks.

“No, but I think I know what box they’re in,” his dad says.

“Cool. We should watch something tonight.”

His dad’s smile grows, and Stiles thinks he might be blinking back tears. “Sounds great, kiddo.”

***

 

The next morning when Stiles opens the front door he sees his phone lying on the porch. The case is slightly indented where fangs have gripped it a little too tightly, and the screen is covered in slobber, but it works.

Stiles laughs, because that’s just crazy.

Turns out he could use a little crazy in his life.


	31. Ride Along

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pairing: Derek/Stiles

 

Derek has been looking forward to this for weeks. He’s known ever since he was a little kid that he wants to be a deputy, and now he’s finally old enough to go on a ride along. Every year the Sheriff’s Department organizes a few days of work experience for any local high school kids interested in a career in law enforcement, and this year Derek was lucky enough to get chosen. He already spent a few hours on desk duty yesterday with Deputy Parrish, and today Parrish is taking him out on patrol.

Derek knows the rules backward.

He’s to stay in the car unless Parrish tells him otherwise.

They’ll be tasked only the most routine stuff by dispatch, but if anything urgent comes up, Parrish will basically have to drop him off at the side of the road and go.

“I’m not gonna leave you in the middle of the woods or anything, Derek,” Parrish had said with a laugh when he’d seen the look on Derek’s face. “You’ll be in the middle of town, in the middle of the day, and I’ll come by and get you after. I’ve never lost a work experience kid yet.”

Derek likes Parrish.

Which is why he’s thrown for a loop when he arrives at the station the next day, and it turns out he won’t just be riding along with Parrish. The sheriff himself will be joining them.

“Problem?” Sheriff Stilinski asks.

“No, sir,” Derek says, resisting the urge to fidget. Sheriff Stilinski doesn’t look very intimidating, but at the same time he manages to give the impression he’s staring right into the depths of Derek’s unworthy soul.

The sheriff huffs, and leads the way to the parking lot.

Derek casts a worried look at Parrish as he follows him outside.

The sheriff is holding the back door of his cruiser open. “Watch your head,” he says, and actually puts his hand on Derek’s head to make sure he doesn’t brain himself climbing into the car. Like Derek’s a perp instead of a passenger.

Derek isn’t the only occupant of the back seat.

“Sup?” the kid drawls, and then blows a bubble with his gum.

“Derek,” the sheriff says, settling into the front seat. “This is my son, Stiles. I believe you two know each other?”

“Derek’s in my home room,” Stiles says before Derek can answer, popping another bubble. “Possibly. I cut class a lot.”

Derek’s eyes widen. Why the hell would he even say that? To his father? Who is the _sheriff_?

The sheriff doesn’t appear to hear it. “If you get gum in my cruiser, you’re cleaning it out.”

Stiles leans forward and curls his fingers around the grill separating them from the sheriff and Parrish. “Right-o, Daddy-o. Let’s go and fight some crime!”

 

***

 

Stiles is a fidgeter. He chews his gum and jiggles his leg, and sighs a lot. A _lot_. They’ve barely been in the back of the cruiser for five minutes before he’s rolling his eyes and groaning and muttering under his breath.

Derek tries to pay attention to the chatter on the radio and to the commentary Parrish provides as they head through town, but at least ninety-five percent of his concentration is taken up by restraining himself from smothering Stiles to death with his own flannel shirt.

 

***

 

Their first job is a minor traffic accident on Maple Street. Nobody is hurt, but the drivers are arguing about whose fault it is.

“This is something their insurance companies could sort out,” Parrish says as the sheriff gets out to deal with the drivers. “But we’ll put a report on, and get everyone separated before tempers flare.”

Derek nods his understanding.

Stiles sighs. “I’m _bored_.”

Parrish gets out to go and help the sheriff.

“What is wrong with you?” Derek hisses at him.

“Uh, hello, I’m _bored_ ,” Stiles tells him. “I think I just said that.”

“This is _interesting_ ,” Derek says.

“This is _boring_ ,” Stiles insists. “Why do you want to be a cop anyway?”

“I want to help people,” Derek says.

“Ugh.” Stiles slumps back in his seat. “I’m stuck in a cage with Mother Freaking Teresa.”

 

***

 

“So, Derek,” Sheriff Stilinski says, meeting Derek’s gaze in the rearview.

Derek jolts a little, and pretends he wasn’t staring at Stiles’s mouth as he chews his gum. “Yes, sir?”

“You want to be a deputy, huh?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You getting good grades?”

“Yes, sir,” Derek says, and then realizes the sheriff is actually waiting for a break down of his said grades. “Um, I’m on a 3.8 GPA.”

“Huh,” the sheriff says. “3.8. That’s not too shabby.”

Stile cracks his gum. “He’s probably too smart to be a cop, right? Right, Dad?”

The sheriff ignores him. “Think you can maintain that until graduation?”

“Yes, sir,” Derek says.

“Ugh,” Stiles says, and rolls his eyes.

 

***

 

It’s a relief to get out of the car at the CVS, even if Derek feels like a shoplifter as he’s walking through the aisles with a police officer on either side of him. He gets a lot of judgmental stares from the customers in the store.

Stiles shuffles after them, grumbling away to himself.

They reach the counter.

“Good morning, Sheriff,” the clerk says.

“Morning, Francine,” Sheriff Stilinski says. “I phoned through an order earlier.”

“Right! I’ll just grab it for you.” She digs around under the counter for a moment, and then slides a taped paper bag across the counter.

The sheriff hands his credit card over.

Stiles appears at his elbow. “Dad, can I get some jellybeans?”

“No.”

Stiles groans. “Please?”

“No.” The sheriff tucks the bag under his arm and leads the way outside again.

Derek resists the urge to pull his phone out and check the time.

This day is never going to end.

 

***

 

They go to a break and enter. The sheriff and Parrish talk to the upset homeowner, and Derek stands back and listens respectfully. Stiles stands beside him and fidgets. Derek slaps his hand down when he reaches out to touch a collection of knickknacks so awful that the burglar didn’t even touch them.

“So, Derek,” Parrish says as they head back toward the cruiser. “It’s not all excitement and action, right?”

“I know that,” Derek tells him. “That’s not what I’m expecting.”

“Not in Beacon Hills,” the sheriff says gruffly, and stares intently at Derek. “Unless you’re thinking of going somewhere like L.A.?”

“Um, no, sir,” Derek tells him. Is that sweat breaking out on the back of his neck? “No, I’d like to stay in Beacon Hills.”

The sheriff grunts at him, and opens the back door of the cruiser so he can climb back in beside Stiles.

 

***

 

This ride along is the worst thing ever. The Sheriff clearly hates him, and Stiles is being a dick, and Parrish—who Derek thought was a great guy—appears to be ignoring the extremely awkward tension in the car, and just keeps smiling to himself like everyone’s enjoying a ride in the countryside.

Which…

Why are they going for a ride in the countryside?

“Dad?” Stiles asks, shaking the grill. “What are we doing out here?”

The cruiser turns down the road through the Preserve that will lead them to—

Oh no.

“It’s not all about grades, of course,” the sheriff says. “It’s also about being an upstanding member of the community. Do you consider yourself an upstanding member of the community, Derek?”

Derek considers himself a dead man. “I hope so, sir.”

The cruiser rolls to a stop at the lookout.

“Get a lot of calls out here, don’t we, Parrish?” the sheriff says.

“Quite a few, yes, sir,” Parrish agrees.

“Mostly at night.” The sheriff taps his fingers on the steering wheel. “What is it the kids call this place, Parrish?”

“Oh my god,” Stiles mutters, face flaming red.

“I believe they call it Makeout Point, sir,” Parrish says.

“That’s right,” the sheriff says. “Makeout Point.” He taps his fingers again, and then opens his door. “Well, let’s take a look.”

Derek doesn’t dare meet Stiles’s eyes as they climb out of the car.

“Filthy, isn’t it?” the sheriff says, nudging a sun-bleached condom wrapper with the toe of his boot.

It…it is kind of grubby in the day. There are broken beer bottles and condom wrappers, and, ugh, that’s not a wrapper. That’s an actual used condom, lying in the dirt with ants crawling all over it, and Derek kind of wants to throw up.

Stiles snorts, and then catches Derek’s narrow look. “What? Dude, I’m not going to judge these ants for their lifestyle choice. If they want to eat c—”

“Stiles!” the sheriff exclaims.

Stiles snaps his mouth shut.

Fuck, he’s an idiot.

The sheriff glares at Stiles for a moment, then turns that glare on Derek. “What sort of car do you drive, Derek?”

Oh god no.

Derek swallows. “A black Camaro, sir.”

“A black Camaro,” the sheriff repeats. “Parrish, didn’t we have a report the other night of a black Camaro out here?”

Parrish makes a show of flipping through papers on his clipboard. “I believe we did, sir.”

Please could lightning strike Derek down now?

“Stop!” Stiles throws his hands up. “Dad, c’mon! Stop!”

“Stop what, Stiles?” the sheriff asks, hands on his hips.

“Stop this _bullshit_!” Stiles huffs. “Fine! I’m sorry when you asked if I was seeing anyone, I said I wasn’t. Yes, I’m seeing someone. Yes, it’s Derek. And yes, we were totally making out in his Camaro the other night!”

Derek is going to die. The sheriff is going to shoot him and he is going to die.

Stiles looks at Derek and shrugs. “I _told_ you that was a cop car we passed on the way back.”

Oh god.

The sheriff stares at Derek. When he steps forward, Derek can’t help flinching back. But the sheriff is only reaching through the open window of the cruiser and pulling the CVS bag out. He holds it out to Derek, and Derek takes it tentatively.

“If you _ever_ want to work as a deputy in this town, Hale,” the sheriff says, “then you’d damn well better treat my son—and yourself—with some respect. If I hear either of you are out here again, I’ll personally tan both your hides.”

This talk is not going the way Derek expected.

“I expect you to eat with me and Stiles at least once a week.” the sheriff says. “And you will _both_ maintain your grades, or you will not like the consequences.”

Derek is totally out of his depth here. Where’s his death threat? Okay, so the sheriff delivered the whole dinner thing like it was a promise to tear Derek’s throat out with his teeth and then rip his balls off, but it still wasn’t exactly a threat.

“Go on then,” the sheriff says, nodding at the bag. “Open it.”

Derek tears the bag open carefully, half-expecting it to explode. Then, when he spots the condoms and the lube, he kind of wishes it had.

“Cool,” Stiles says, and then his eyes light up. “You _did_ get me jellybeans!”

“Of course I did,” the sheriff mutters. “Now get back in the car, the pair of you.”

Derek climbs numbly into the back of the cruiser.

He still has no idea what just happened.

 

***

 

“Look, Der,” Stiles exclaims, waving the lube in his face. “We got the flavored sort.” He rattles on the grill. “Dad, how’d you guess?”

Derek closes his eyes and tries to disappear.

“Strawberry, though?” Stiles asks. “Huh. No, I guess I like strawberry.” There’s a crinkle of plastic. “Der, want some?”

Derek opens his eyes, expecting the worst, but Stiles is waving the bag of jellybeans in his face.

Thank fuck.

“I’m good,” he manages.

In the front seat, Parrish’s shoulders are shaking.

Stiles grins, and curls his fingers around Derek’s, and Derek thinks that okay , maybe he can survive the rest of this day after all.

“Dad?” Stiles asks. “Hey, Dad? When Derek’s a cop, he’ll get handcuffs, right?”

Or maybe not.


	32. Strays

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Weird things happen when I nap. This is probably the tiniest drabble in the history of drabbles, but I think I will probably end up building on it. 
> 
> Pairing: Stiles/Chris
> 
> And to read the extended version, it's started over here: [Strays](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8048128)

Chris shouldn’t. He knows that. Shouldn’t feed the strays, or they’ll never get rid of them. But somehow he finds himself standing outside the empty hospital, repurposed now as HQ, holding up a vacuum sealed ration pack to lure the boy closer.

Grit crunches under the thin soles of the boy’s shoes as he steps toward him.

It’s a transaction.

Bloodless.

He’s seen this kid before. The first time was staring out the back of a truck as it rumbled through the remains of the town, and the kid was standing like a wraith on the corner of what was once Main Street. The kid was silent and still. The only thing moving was his gaze, tracking the trucks as they rumbled past.

Chris wants to think there’s something different about this boy, something special enough to make him break his own rules, but maybe he’s just tired, worn down by years of war, and what the hell does it matter what he does?

It’s a transaction.

The boy is quiet throughout, wary and watchful as Chris puts him on his knees.

When it’s done, the boy slinks back into the darkness with the ration pack clutched to his chest, and Chris returns to his room and pours himself a drink. From his window, he looks out onto the remains of the town once known as Beacon Hills.


	33. This Means War

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Supernatural crossover, anyone?  
> Pairing: Stiles/Derek 
> 
> This turned out sillier than I expected.

Ten dollar plaid flannel shirts.

First pie, and now this.

This is a red letter day.

Dean takes a step toward the bargain bin at the front of the store, ready to reach out and grab enough shirts to last him until the apocalypse—although that’s probably only a week or so away, going on their track record—and suddenly there’s a lanky kid standing right in front of him.

“Excuse me,” Dean says. Translation: _Fuck you very much._

“Excuse _you_ ,” the kid shoots back. Translation: _Same_. “I was here first, dude.”

“Did you just call me _dude_ , dude?”

The kid narrows his eyes. “Uh, _yeah_.”

And then he turns around quickly and starts ferreting through the bargain bin. Flannel shirts explode in plaid flurries around his head.

Dean has never been good at stepping away from a fight, whether it’s the entire heavenly host arrayed against him, or some scrawny little fucktard from a werewolf-infested town in northern California. Not backing down is kind of his thing.

He dives in beside the kid, and within half a second they’re in a tug-of-war over a blue plaid shirt that Dean is pretty sure he wants more than anything else in his life. And, going on the stubborn look on the kid’s face, so does he.

“Dean,” Cas says from behind him, his tone mild in a way that usually spells trouble.

“What?” Dean asks, tugging on the shirt and glaring over his shoulder at Cas.

Who is not alone.

There’s a big guy wearing a leather jacket and eyebrows of doom glaring right back at him.

“FBI, buddy,” Dean says, relinquishing his grip on the shirt to flash his badge. “Back off.”

The kid, wrenching back at the exactly the time Dean lets go of the shirt, flails backward and lands on his ass on the floor with a muffled yelp.

And Leather Jacket _growls_ and his eyes flash blue.

 

***

 

“I got it!” Stiles crows, waving the shirt triumphantly. Also, his ass hurts, and not in a fun way. He clambers to his feet. “Wait! Did you say FBI? What the hell is the FBI doing in Beacon Hills, because my dad is the sheriff and—”

And these guys are not FBI. Okay, Trenchcoat, maybe, but not Shirt Nemesis. Because Shirt Nemesis might have a badge, and he might be wearing a shoulder holster, but that’s no government issued Glock he’s flashing. That’s a fucking Beretta. Also, the knife in his other shoulder holster is a dead fucking giveaway.

 _Hunters_.

“Derek! Look out!” Stiles launches himself at Shirt Nemesis.

Tackles him head first into a rack of tighty-whities.

 

***

 

Sam’s good day goes down the gurgler as soon as the 911 calls start coming in from customers at Modine’s Discount Clothing. The sheriff, who Sam thought was finally starting to come around and be a little more forthcoming about the “animal attacks” in town, grabs his car keys and his hat and strides straight for the door. Fifteen seconds later he’s back, pointing at Sam like this is all his fault.

“Want to tell me why I’m getting calls that your partner is involved in a fight downtown?”

Sam tries to look professional. “Sheriff, I’m sure there’s a logical explanation for—”

“With my _son_?” Stilinski finishes up, a murderous gleam in his eye.

Fucking Dean. Seriously.

 

***

 

“Ow! Owowow!”

Dean glares at the kid from underneath the icepack the nice lady at the store had provided. Seriously, he is laying it on with a trowel.

“Am I bleeding?” the kid asks, touching his trembling fingers to his nostrils and then looking at them. His eyes go stupidly wide. “I’m bleeding! You _asshole_!”

“Language, Stiles,” the sheriff snaps. Then he shoots a look at Leather Jacket. “Jesus Christ, Derek. Put your damned claws away.”

Dean exchanges a shocked look with Sam.

“Sheriff,” Sam begins.

“Don’t start with me, son,” Stilinski says. “And, while we’re at it, you can take your fake FBI badges and shove them up your asses.”

In the sudden awkward silence, Cas leans down and picks up the discarded shirt. “This is a woman’s size six.”

 

***

 

An hour later they’re all sitting around a table in Shelley’s Diner, and the Stilinski brat has snagged the last piece of apple pie. He’s glaring at Dean as he eats it.

“You’re looking for a Winnebago,” the sheriff says.

“Wendigo,” the werewolf—Derek—growls out. He has one arm slung protectively around Stiles, and looks about half a heartbeat away from tearing Dean’s throat out.

“Wendigo,” the sheriff agrees. “And you’ll be paying for the damage you caused at Modine’s before you leave town, is that clear?”

“Yes, sir,” Sam says.

“With all due respect, Sheriff,” Dean says. “Your kid started it.”

“Um, no way, _dude_ ,” Stiles splutters around a mouthful of pie that should have been Dean’s. Whatever he is going to say next is cut off when Derek claps a hand over his mouth. “ _Mmm-ek_!”

The sheriff drops a few bills on the table to cover their food. “I don’t want to see you boys in Beacon Hills again, understood?”

 

***  

 

“All I’m saying, Der,” Stiles says later that night as they watch the hunters pack their car at the crappy highway motel they booked into, “is that you could have defended my honor. Just a bit.”

“Your honor?” Derek asks, raising his eyebrows. “Stiles, you and a grown man were fighting over a lady’s plaid shirt. Honor is not the first word that comes to mind.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “You could have, like, punched the other guy or something.”

“Punched the other guy? The other guy who didn’t do anything?”

“I know, right?” Stiles huffs. “Pretty lame sidekick, or what?”

 

***

 

When Stiles and the guy crash into the rack of underwear, sending it—and them—to the floor, Derek’s first instinct is to wolf out.

“Stop,” the man in the trenchcoat says.

And Derek… _stops_.

The sudden obligation to obey the man is as terrifying as it is compelling. He turns his head to look at the guy, unsure of what it is he will see.

He sees a slightly perplexed expression. A small, curious frown. “I do not understand humans at all.”

Stiles and the guy are wrestling frantically in pile of underwear.

“Me neither,” Derek admits.

They stand there in an unspoken agreement not to let their idiot humans kill each other, and wait for the police to arrive.

 

***

 

“Right,” Derek agrees, his mouth twitching. “Lame.”

Stiles reaches behind them into the back seat of the Camaro and drags out a shopping bag. He digs inside it.

“You bought the shirt,” Derek says. “Why?”

Stiles opens the door. “I’m going to shove it in their tailpipe before they leave. Watch my back!”

Derek rolls his eyes.

Idiot.


	34. Forgotten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pairing: Steter, I guess. 
> 
> Inspired by this. It struck me as very sad that maybe this isn't the first time Stiles has been wiped from someone's memory. 
> 
>  

This is… this is _hell_.

Don’t try to tell Stiles that this isn’t hell.

He counts his shaking fingers. Counts them again to be sure.

He’s definitely awake, and this is definitely hell.

 

***

 

There’s a hole inside him. It’s been there half his life. Sometimes he can hardly feel the ache of it at all, but it’s always there. He’s learned to live with it. Learned to live with the way it pulls light into it. It’s rapacious. Even in quiet moments, in moments where Stiles is happy, when he thinks that maybe, just maybe he’s okay, there’s always the fear. Always the fear that the darkness will find a way to consume him too. That he’ll be gone. That he’ll just blink out of existence. That he’ll be nothing.

It’s happened, hasn’t it?

It’s happened again.

 

***

 

His shoes squeaked against the linoleum floors of the hospital. The linoleum looked gray from a distance, but up close it had a weird marbled pattern. Stiles had spent a lot of time up close, lying on his stomach on the floor while he worked on his coloring books or his homework or played a game on Dad’s phone. He’d learned to shut out the sounds of the hospital. The beeping machines. The intercom. The blast and rattle of the cold air conditioning.

Everything always smelled like antiseptic.

Stiles didn’t like the hospital.

It first happened there.

His shoes squeaked on the linoleum, and he curled his fingers around the straps of his Batman backpack. He tried not to run, because running wasn’t allowed here, but he was excited. His backpack was hanging open, and he had his story clutched in his hands.

“Mom!” he exclaimed as he rounded the door into her room. “Mom! I got a gold star on my story, look!”

He hurried to her bed and thrust the paper in her face. Shook it a few times to try to get her to take it and see.

“Mom?”

When he pulled the paper back she was staring at him, startled.

“Mom?” he asked again.

She tugged her blankets up, her hands fluttering. “Who are you? What are you doing in here?”

Stiles looked at the star on his story, suddenly blurred with tears. “M-mom?”

“You shouldn’t be in here!” she exclaimed, pressing the button for the nurse. “Go away!”

There was nothing cold in her face.

She just … she just didn’t know who he was. Every memory of her son, removed from her mind with almost surgical precision. It didn’t even leave a scar.

 

***

 

It can’t be happening again.

 

***

 

“Son, you okay?” his dad asks him as Stiles babbles at him. “Slow down. Slow down.”

And Stiles is flooded with relief, because Dad’s here, and they’ll figure this out. They always do. He can dial back this panic attack. “Okay.”

“Now,” his dad says. “Why don’t you tell me your name?”

For the second time in his life Stiles can’t feel the ground underneath his feet.

 

***

 

He’s nothing.

He’s nobody.

In the past he’s never given up. But in the past, there was always something to fight for. Now he’s already lost everything, hasn’t he?

The black hole inside him has consumed everything.

The void has won.

 

***

 

He finds himself back at the depot, wandering around aimlessly with the rest of the forgotten. What else is there to do?

 

***

 

“Well,” Peter Hale says, sitting down beside him. “You’re a fucking mess, aren’t you?”

“My dad…” Stiles begins, and can’t go any further. He doesn’t have to. Peter knows exactly what he’s going to say. Stiles’s story is no different than anyone else’s in here. He’s not special. “I never existed, did I?”

“Bullshit,” Peter says.

Stiles raises his eyebrows.

“I’m no Cartesian philosopher,” Peter says. “But look at you, thinking. _Being_.”

“Can something exist without being perceived?” Stiles asks.

“If a tree falls in the forest and nobody hears it, Peter says thoughtfully, “what is the airspeed velocity of a unladen swallow?”

Stiles chokes back a laugh. “Did you just—”

“Piss all over your pity parade?” Peter asks, eyes flashing blue. “Yes, I did, princess. I perceive you. You perceive you. I’m pretty sure that means we both exist. Now, if you can leave the existential crisis for another day, shall we work on figuring out a way to kill these assholes?”

“Do you think that will put things back the way they were?” Stiles asks hopefully.

Peter grins, and shows a hint of fang. “I don’t know. But at least they’ll be dead.”

He has a point.

 

***

 

“Mom is very sick, Stiles,” his dad said, hugging him tight. “Sometimes she doesn’t know what she’s saying. She didn’t mean to hurt your feelings, okay, kiddo?”

Stiles sobbed into his shoulder.

“It’s okay,” his dad said. “You’ve got me. You’ve always got me.”

His dad never meant it as a lie, but it stings like one all the same now. And someone should really pay for that. Stiles is going to make sure they do.

 

***

 

“I think,” Stiles says, rolling his shoulders as he and Peter wander down Main Street, “that I could really use my baseball bat.”

“Old school,” Peter says approvingly. “Let’s get you one, and then go and kill these fuckers.”

Stiles nods.

Maybe they’ll get their lives back. Maybe they won’t. But Stiles knows one thing for sure: he and Peter aren’t going down without a fight. They’re going to be remembered one way or another.

 


	35. Mating Runs and Chicken Wings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pairing: Stiles/Derek  
> This story... I don't even know.
> 
> *** 
> 
> And, you guys, you guys! Check out the art that this chapter inspired! It's by GobsmackApplejack and it's fantastic!  
> [Pants Chicken! ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8779717)

“Derek,” Talia Hale said, and Derek gave a guilty start and turned to face her. He hadn’t been zoning out. No, not at all. Not right now, in front of half the town, right before the speeches were about to start.

“Yes, Mom?”

Talia narrowed her eyes in the direction of the buffet. “Why is that omega shoving canapés down his pants?”

And Derek knew, even before he looked, exactly who she was talking about.

Stiles Stilinski.

 

***

 

Stiles Stilinski.

Sheriff’s son, omega, and general troublemaker. Well, not that anyone could prove, but whenever trouble happened, he was somewhere right by. The smashed window of the chemistry teacher’s car? The missing letter B from the Bass Lane street sign? The pulled fire alarm during the career day expo at the high school? Derek hadn’t even been in high school for six years now, but he’d heard about it. Senator Gerard Argent, in the middle of his speech about traditional family values--shorthand for how funding should be cut for omega education since they’d all end up as homemakers anyway--had been whisked out of the school by his security detail while Stiles Stilinski leaned against the wall near the fire alarm and whistled innocently.

Cora, Derek’s younger sister, had cackled about it for days.

Stiles Stilinski, who had never lowered his gaze to an alpha in his life, was apparently at the annual Mating run. Derek was surprised by that. Actually, Derek was surprised to see Cora here as well. Their mother had always given them the choice of whether or not to attend, and last time they’d talked she’d been adamant she wouldn’t be coming.

Apparently she’d changed her mind, since she’d fronted up this morning in her sweats and signed up to participate. Derek had lost sight of her somewhere in the crowd since.

Derek sighed, and headed over toward the expansive buffet table where Stiles was still shoving food into his pants like some weird, twitchy squirrel. He was so focused on a platter of hot wings--not too hot, Derek hoped, for the sake of his junk--that he didn’t even notice Derek until he spoke.

“Stiles.”

Stiles spun around, his eyes ridiculously wide. He tried for what Derek assumed was supposed to be a casual smile, and grimaced unattractively instead. “H-hey, Cora’s scary big brother.”

Derek folded his arms over his chest. “My mother wants to know why you’re putting food down your pants.”

“Oh,” said Stiles with a vague hand wave. “You know. I thought I might get hungry during the speeches and whatnot.”

It had been a few years since Derek had been on a Mating Run, but he remembered the rules. Runners were allowed to wear track pants and t-shirts only. No shoes, no phones, no food. It was the traditional way. Apart from the clothes. A few centuries ago all participants would have run naked.

“Bullshit,” Derek said.

“I have low blood sugar,” Stiles said, blinking at him.

“Bullshit,” Derek said again, trying to ignore the omega’s scent. He smelled like…well, like chicken, mostly. “Put it back.”

“Put it _back_?” Stiles’s mouth dropped open. “Dude, it’s been in my _pants_. Where my _dick_ is.”

Oh Jesus.

“Just…” Derek shook his head to try and clear it, and to not think about Stiles’s dick. “Just get away from the table then!” he said, flustered.

Stiles smirked at him. “Aye aye, alpha.”

He sauntered away, and Derek got the impression that Stiles wasn’t as stupid as he appeared and that he’d somehow been played.

 

***

 

As Mayor of Beacon Hills, Talia Hale knew how to deliver a speech. Derek stood on the edge of the hall, watching her at the podium. She was warm, friendly, and she didn’t blather on. Unlike Gerard Argent, who took at least twenty-five minutes to get to the point. The point being, apparently, that traditional values were the cornerstone of his glorious plan to make America great again.

Derek could hardly stop from rolling his eyes.

Cora, who was sitting a few rows back from the podium in the ranks of the runners, did roll her eyes. A few of her alpha and beta friends looked similarly unimpressed.

Stiles was sitting at the back of the hall with the rest of the omegas. His face was set. When the speeches ended he was one of the first ones out of his seat, pushing through the crowd to where Sheriff Stilinski was standing.

The sheriff tugged him into a quick hug, and Stiles rested his head on his dad’s shoulder for a moment before straightening up again.

Something about that gesture unsettled Derek.

The last Mating Run Derek had gone on, everyone had been happy to be there. There had been a real carnival atmosphere to the whole thing, complete with corn dogs and, later, fireworks.

Stiles and his father didn’t look happy at all.

 

***

 

Derek headed up toward the podium, where his mother and Gerard Argent were engaged in a conversation. Talia, as always, looked about as delighted to be talking to the old man as she would have undergoing a root canal, but she hid it behind a façade of bland politeness. Derek knew her too well to be fooled.

“Ah, Derek Hale!” Gerard Argent exclaimed. “Are you running today, son?”

“Derek has chosen not to,” Talia said smoothly.

“That’s a shame,” Gerard said with his politician’s smile. “It’s young alphas like yourself we need out there, Derek. You need to get yourself an omega, and get it full of pups. Isn’t that right, Talia?”

His mother’s smile was strained.

Peter, Derek’s uncle and Talia’s press secretary, appeared out of nowhere, like always. He immediately insinuated himself uninvited into the conversation. Like always. “Goodness, Gerard. Not every alpha wants an omega, you know.”

Oh, Gerard knew, and didn’t he hate it? His expression soured, which only made Peter’s smile widen.

Gerard was one of the strongest rightwing proponents of traditional marriage the country had ever produced, and Peter Hale, an alpha, had somehow managed to swoop in when he wasn’t looking, seduce the fuck out of Gerard’s alpha son Chris, and they’d both run off to Canada last year to make it official.

“Peter,” he grit out between his teeth. “How nice to see you again.”

Peter looked absolutely delighted to be on the receiving end of so much barely-constrained venom. “And you too, of course, Gerard. Are you staying in town long? Chris and I really must have you over for dinner.”

“I’m leaving shortly,” Gerard snarled. “I need to be back in Sacramento tonight.”

“Oh, what a terrible shame,” Peter lied brightly.

One day the authorities were going to find his corpse buried in Gerard’s back garden, Derek was sure of it.

“Anyway,” Gerard said, rallying, “I do hope the Run is a success, Talia. I look forward to the program being rolled out across the nation. I’d like to see participation rates like this in every Run in every town by next year.”

Talia looked suddenly icy. “Well, you and I will have to agree to disagree on that, Gerard.”

The old man chuckled and turned to leave.

“Do have a pleasant flight home,” Peter added. “I’ll give Chris your warmest regards.”

Gerard’s security detail closed in around him, and ushered him away.

 

***

 

“Der!” Cora exclaimed as he pushed his way through the crowd of teens and young adults in the joint alpha and beta staging area. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Derek gave her the side-eye. “What does it look like? I’m running.”

 

***

 

The twenty omegas were released first. They bolted straight into the woods in the Preserve. Half an hour later, the alphas and betas were released.

 

***

 

“Okay,” Cora said, hardly panting as she ran. “What’s the deal, Der?”

“You tell me,” he said.

Cora and her friends were running as a group. No, he thought, as a _pack_. Scott and Boyd, the alphas, were on the flanks. Allison Argent, Peter’s stepdaughter, and her friends Lydia and Jackson, all betas, kept pace behind Cora.

This wasn’t the way that Mating Runs worked. Alphas and betas were supposed to split up, to each hunt their own omega, not hunt in a pack. Although as far as Derek could tell, there weren’t tracking the scent of any omegas. He had no idea what the fuck they were doing, actually.

“Um,” Cora said, leaping over a fallen log with ease. “Welcome to the resistance?”

 

***

 

As they ran, Derek heard distant howls of anger and frustration from around them.

Alphas.

It sounded like some of them were getting pissed, which given the nature of the Run was to be expected, but it was strange Derek hadn’t heard much fighting yet. There were fewer omegas than alphas and betas. There should have been fighting over the spoils. Even with the head start the omegas had, they all should have been caught by now, and a hell of a lot closer to the starting line than this.

The hunting part of the Mating Run should have ended already, every scent trail followed to its end, every omega claimed.

Omegas were weaker, slower. They tired more quickly. Even with their head start, without water or food to keep their strength up there was no way--

Derek wanted to slap himself.

He knew of at least one omega who had food, didn’t he? And maybe he wasn’t the only one.

 

***

 

There were caves up on the bluff behind the river. Derek wasn’t surprised to find himself there. He wasn’t even surprised when Cora whistled, and Stiles appeared, a chicken leg hanging from his mouth. He was soaking wet, and shivering a little with the cold, but he grinned broadly.

“Sup, Cora?” he drawled.

“Stilinski,” she said, and fist bumped him.

“Thanks for coming, guys,” Stiles said. His smile faltered when it landed on Derek, and he turned his accusing gaze on Cora. “You invited your scary brother?”

“Pfft.” Cora hip checked him. “Der’s a total marshmallow.”

Stiles looked dubious, and led them inside the cave.

 

***

 

There were five omegas, apart from Stiles, huddled in the cave in a damp little bundle.

“Okay,” Cora said, raising her voice. She sounded exactly like Talia. “Here’s the deal. Fuck pheromones. Fuck biology. We’re not animals, and our friends are not prey. Agreed?”

The alphas and betas nodded, and just like that the knot of omegas untangled itself. Derek recognized one of them as Isaac, a boy Cora had done a science project with earlier in the year. He smiled at her shyly, and ducked his head when she smiled back. Another omega, a blonde girl, crossed cautiously to Boyd’s side and he put her arm around her. Derek didn’t recognize the others, but they looked young. Very young.

“What’s going on, Cora?” Derek asked her quietly.

Stiles glanced at him sharply. “What’s going on, _alpha_ , is that not everyone wants to get mated while they’re still in high school. It’s pretty fucking simple.”

“Then why are you here?” Derek asked him.

Cora reached out and clapped a hand on Stiles’s shoulder, and Derek fought down an irrational burst of jealousy. “Gerard Argent sent out a letter to all government employees in town with omega kids letting them know that if their kids were eligible and didn’t run, their contracts would be up for review.”

“That can’t be legal!”

“And yet here we are,” Stiles muttered. “The trial run.”

“But it’s _illegal_.”

“It’s actually not,” Lydia said from the mouth of the cave. “Most government employees have to abide by a morality clause. And Argent can, and will, make the argument that any opposition to traditional family values, like refusing to make your omega participate in the Mating Run, breaches that morality clause. I mean, it would probably end up in the Supreme Court and it would probably be shot down, but…”

“But how does my dad pay his mortgage in the meantime,” Stiles finished.

“So here we are,” Cora said. “Out of the twenty omegas who ran today, we’ve got six who aren’t going to be mated by tomorrow morning. That should prove his fascist little program isn’t worth pursuing.” Her expression hardened. “And even if it doesn’t, at least our friends are safe for another year.”

“Allison,” Stiles said in the sudden silence. “Your grandfather’s a giant bag of dicks.” He scowled. “And I say that as someone who would usually enjoy a giant bag of dicks.”

“I know,” Allison said. “On both counts.”

 

 

***

 

Cora and Stiles, Derek learned, had been plotting this for months. They’d scoped out the caves, buried what supplies they needed, and recruited the friends they could trust to be a part of it. Stiles had made contact with other omegas in the same position he was, and they’d been training for weeks in the Preserve, building up their strength and learning how to avoid leaving a scent trail.

“I’m freezing,” Isaac mumbled. “Tell me why swimming up the river was a thing again?”

“Poor baby,” Stiles said, elbowing him. “Did it mess up your pretty hair?”

Isaac elbowed him back and grinned. “Asshole.”

“The only regret I have is eating chicken wings that came from Stiles’s pants,” the youngest omega, Corey, said as he wrapped a blanket around his shoulders and settled down to rest as the sun went down.

“My pants chicken is delicious,” Stiles told him. “It brings all the boys to the yard.”

Corey flipped him the bird.

Yeah no. Derek wasn’t really buying that docile omega bullshit from any of this crew.

“You couldn’t bury protein bars along the way?” Derek asked him.

“We weren’t stopping,” Stiles said. “Not until we got here.”

“I think you just like hiding food in your pants,” Derek said. “Pants chicken is your kink.”

Stiles snorted, and then flushed. His scent grew suddenly sweeter. “Yeah, you keep on believing that, Cora’s scary big brother.”

“It’s Derek,” Derek told him.

Stiles shrugged, and grinned. “I know.”

 

***

 

The alphas and the betas took turns patrolling the area outside the cave, soaking it in their scent--Derek pissed against more trees than he cared to admit--and warning off any other encroaching alphas with staged fights between themselves. Meanwhile, Cora dug up a sealed plastic box, carried it outside at arm’s length, and then opened it. The stench of something dead and decaying drove Derek back inside the cave immediately.

“Dead possum,” Cora announced proudly when she came back inside. “That should hide their scents.”

“You’re disgusting,” Derek told her. “And very smart.”

She smirked proudly, looking exactly like Peter for a moment.

Speaking of…

“You didn’t do all this on your own, did you?” he asked her.

“I’ve been sworn to secrecy,” she said, and settled down with Isaac at the back wall of the cave.

 

***

 

Derek awoke with a lapful of limbs.

“Thing is,” Stiles whispered, nuzzling against his throat. “You smell really fucking good.”

“I smell like dead possum, Stiles,” Derek whispered back. Across the cave, Scott flashed his eyes at him in warning.

Stiles straddled him, rocking against him. His pupils were blown, and sweet omega scent rolled off him in waves. “No. You smell _good_.”

“Uh huh,” Derek said, grabbing for Stiles’s wrists and holding them as the omega went for the waistband of his track pants. “Okay, but you know what could really fuck up the entire Mating Run resistance thing you’ve got happening here?”

“What?” Stiles asked, blinking at him in the darkness.

“Actually finding your mate.”

Stiles blinked again. “Yeah. Yeah, I kinda didn’t plan on that.” He sighed heavily, and slumped against Derek. “Sucks, dude.”

“Yep,” Derek said. “It really does.”

“Pants chicken,” Stiles mumbled, and fell into a doze.

 

***

 

Worst night ever.

Stuck in a cave that smelled like dead possum, with Stiles Stilinski. Who also smelled like dead possum. But who, underneath that--and the chicken--smelled like petrichor and citrus and something sweet. Stuck in a cave with his mate, whose pheromones rolled off him in waves. Stuck with the worst case of blue balls he’d ever had, with an audience of teenagers that included his little sister.

When dawn finally broke, Derek couldn’t wait to get the hell out of there.

“So that was kind of awkward,” Stiles said as they headed through the Preserve back toward town. “Um, sorry?”

“You are a very annoying person,” Derek told him, glaring. “And apparently I can’t live without you.”

Stiles quirked his mouth. “Romantic.”

“Shut up.” Derek scowled at him. “Also, we should totally date. When this whole Mating Run thing is done, I mean. Go on a date with me.”

“Okay,” Stiles said with a grin.

“I’ll take you somewhere nice,” Derek told him. “Please don’t put food down your pants.”

“That really was a one time thing.”

“And when you graduate high school, we’ll get mated,” Derek said.

“Is that so, sourwolf?” Stiles’s grin was bright. “You don’t want some docile little omega homemaker?”

“No,” Derek told him. “And even if I did, apparently I’ve got you instead. And you’re going to go to college, and be incredible, and find some way to fuck Gerard Argent up forever.”

Stiles’s grin grew impossibly wide. “That’s always been the plan, big guy.”

“Good,” Derek said. “I like that plan.”

“Unless your uncle poisons him first, of course,” Stiles said with a wishful sigh.

“Please,” Derek said. “Peter would never do anything the police could prove.”

Five months later, when he read the front page headlines, Derek’s first instinct was to call Peter and ask how he managed to get Gerard to choke to death on a fish bone at a family dinner. In the end though, he decided it was probably better not to know.

He whistled happily as he waited for Stiles to get home from classes, and prepared their favorite dinner.

Chicken wings.

It never failed to make Stiles laugh.


	36. Little Shit Kitty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For @cuppachar who brought my attention to these pics on tumblr and asked for a little shit kitty fic: 
> 
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> I don't know who made the gifs. If anyone does, please let me know so I can give the proper credit. 
> 
> Pairing: Peter/Stiles

It’s all Derek’s fault. Most things are. But given Peter’s lifelong flirtation with sociopathy—it’s a feature, not a bug—Derek has somehow got it into his head that Peter needs saving. Or civilizing. Or something. Peter is rather vague on the details of whatever it is that Derek is trying to achieve, but he is fond of his nephew so he lets himself be gently bullied.

And so he doesn’t complain more than absolutely necessary, and he does all of the things that Derek tells him he should do. He gets a cactus for his apartment and even talks to it because Derek tells him he should. It dies within the week, but still. He volunteers for the local food bank, because Derek thinks his day job is evil and needs to be balanced out with good deeds. At his day job Peter is a consultant, which is a vague enough descriptor that it sounds totally legitimate and above board, when in actual fact it’s neither of those things. And while everyone has the right to legal and financial advice, it’s just that most of Peter’s legal advice amounts to “make sure there are no witnesses” and most of his financial advice is “open a bank account in the Cayman Islands”. It’s good, solid advice for the clients that Peter deals with, and it pays very well.

Still, in order to make Derek happy Peter donates to charity, and recycles, and even takes up yoga. He lasts half a lesson before he quits and decides that he would rather self-medicate than meditate, thanks very much. He stops on the way home to buy a bottle of Scotch.

“I’m a work in progress, Derek,” he announces when Derek comes by to find out why he missed his second yoga lesson, and discovers him lounging in his balcony hot tub with a glass of Scotch in one hand, a cigar in the other, and a platter of oysters within easy reach.

“You’re an evil approximation of a human being with a cold black space where your heart should be,” Derek tells him, and steals an oyster. “If we shaved your head, we’d find the Mark of the Beast on it.”

“Aw,” Peter says. “You’re so sweet.”

Derek glares at him.

“Yes,” Peter sighs. “I live such an empty, soulless life here in my penthouse apartment, surrounded by my antique books and my art collection and my wine, with nothing but my massive piles of money and my keen intellect to keep me warm at night. God. It’s a nightmare.” He sucks on his cigar, and then blows a smoke ring in his nephew's face. “Save me, Derek,” he says dryly. “You’re my only hope.”

Derek gives him a sour, unimpressed look. For someone with all of his chakras aligned, Derek is very, very sour. Peter tells him as much, just to see his expression get impossibly more sour. Really, it gives Peter life.

Of course, he should have remembered that Derek’s a Hale too, and that all Hales are born with the capacity to seek revenge.

 

***

 

“No,” Peter says the second he meets Derek outside the coffee shop and sees the skinny kid standing beside him. “Oh, Jesus Christ, Derek, _no_.”

“He’s homeless,” Derek says.

“He’s a _cat_ ,” Peter says. “And cats are assholes.”

“Uh, excuse you,” the boy says, narrowing his gold eyes and flipping Peter the bird.

“See?” Peter asks.

“You called him an asshole,” Derek mutters.

The boy glares, ears back, his tail flicking. It’s a typical beta shift for a cat, and not at all as intimidating as he thinks. Peter’s wolf beta shift? That would send this angry little kitty to the top of the nearest fucking tree. Peter’s almost tempted to try it.

“And then he proved it,” Peter counters. “ _No_.”

“Yeah,” the boy says, jutting out his chin. “Fuck you very much.”

He pushes between them and vanishes down the street.

 

***

 

Two nights later, in the middle of a downpour, there’s a knock on Peter’s door. Peter opens the door to find Derek standing there holding the dripping boy by the scruff of his neck.

Peter sighs and lets them in.

 

***

 

Stiles _is_ an asshole. He eats all Peter’s smoked salmon, falls asleep in random patches of sunlight around the apartment and, unaccountably, takes hours-long baths.

“Are you sure you’re not a seal?” Peter yells at him through the bathroom door.

“Meow, motherfucker!” Stiles yells back.

Peter’s probably going to have to murder him.

 

***

 

Derek has some sort of idea that Stiles can be rehabilitated. He’s been homeless for several years, bouncing from foster care to a detention center and then the streets. He’s not a criminal, exactly, Derek says carefully, he’s just…

“A cat,” Peter mutters, glancing over to where Stiles is sleeping stretched out on the couch surrounded by the shiny treasures that tend to find his way into his possession. A glass paperweight from the bookshelf, a gold pen, a cufflink, and a length of sparkly ribbon he found God only knows where.

Stiles stretches in his sleep, all angles, and settles back again with a rumbling purr. His ears flick back and forth.

“A cat,” Derek echoes.

And cats are just assholes. Ask the internet.

 

***

 

When he’s not sleeping, Stiles has the attention span of a toddler on speed. Derek might hide a smile when Peter drags Stiles out early on a Saturday morning in order to take him hiking, but really it’s for Peter’s own mental health. At this point unless Peter can find some way to get Stiles out of his hair, there is going to be bloodshed. Stiles lasts less than an hour.

First he gets distracted by a butterfly and falls down an embankment, and then he gets in a pissing match—hissing match?—with a teenage werewolf who only backs down when Peter gets involved and puts the pup back in his place, and then he starts complaining that he’s hungry and hunts through Peter’s pockets looking for snacks.

Peter finally sighs and produces a packet of trail mix, and Stiles reaches for it with grabby hands.

“What do you say?” Peter grouses.

Stiles grins. “Meow!”

Asshole.

 

***

 

“I hate him,” Peter mutters, glaring at Stiles through the balcony doors.

“No you don’t,” Derek says.

“He ate sardines in my hot tub,” Peter says, scrubbing at the tub.

“I wondered what that smell was,” Derek murmurs and has the decency to look at least a little bit sorry.

 

***

 

“Peter,” Stiles says one evening when Peter is trying to work. “Peter. Peter. Peter.”

Peter stares fixedly at his laptop screen and focuses on not wolfing out. It’s been a while since it was this hard to maintain his control.

“Peter,” Stiles says, pacing back and forth by the bookshelf. “Peter Peter Peter.”

 _Thump_.

Peter looks up, eyes flashing, swallowing a growl, just in time to see Stiles pull a second book off the shelf.

_Thump._

Stiles’s eyes are bright. His ears are pricked, and his tail is flicking. “Peee-ter.”

Peter meets his gaze. “Stiles.”

Stiles taps his fingers along the books.

“Don’t,” Peter warns in a low voice.

Stiles holds his gaze and widens his eyes.

Peter has told him no. And he’s looking _right_ at him. He’s not going to—

_Thump._

That little fucking asshole.

 

***

 

Deucalion is a very terrifying man. Peter recognizes that. Deucalion is the sort of man who doesn’t like to leave loose ends, and Peter has no doubt that he is a loose end. Still, he impresses on Stiles the importance of staying out of the way when Deucalion comes to visit, and makes sure he has a bottle of his finest red waiting.

Stiles, naturally, comes slinking out of his bedroom within minutes, blinking and stretching like he’s just awoken from a nap. Which he probably has.

“Who’s this?” Deucalion asks, voice sharpening as he leans forward in his seat.

Stiles gives him a lazy smile as he trails past, coming to sit on the armrest of Peter’s chair. Peter hardly has time to blink before Stiles is suddenly in his lap.

“Oh, what a pretty kitty,” Deucalion smirks.

Ew.

Stiles purrs, wriggling in Peter’s lap.

“This is Stiles,” Peter says, attempting to shove Stiles onto the floor. Stiles proves impossible to dislodge.

“I always knew you were a man of very good taste,” Deucalion says.

Again, ew.

“Thank you,” Peter says smoothly.

“Daddy, can I have some wine too?” Stiles asks.

 _What?_ Has Peter slipped into an alternate universe? Or a coma? Because _what?_

Deucalion laughs, the sound low and full of heat.

Stiles takes advantage of Peter’s total inability to form a single coherent thought, and wriggles on his lap as he leans forward and picks up Peter’s glass. He takes a sip of wine, and then sets the glass down again. He stands again, the movement feline-fluid, and bites his lower lip as he saunters toward Deucalion.

Deucalion growls, eyes flashing alpha red, and tugs Stiles into his lap. Stiles wriggles, and giggles, and Peter feels his fangs drop.

“Stiles,” he growls.

Stiles blinks at him, squirming as Deucalion’s hand slips somewhere it really, really shouldn’t.

“My daddy’s jealous,” he giggles, and Deucalion lets him up.

Stiles slinks away, flashing them both a sharp, teasing smile.

What. The. Fuck?

“Shall we return to business?” Peter asks.

Duecalion’s eyes flash again. “Yes.”

 

***

 

Peter knows way too much about how Deucalion’s business works. Really, he’s surprised it takes Deucalion as long as it does.

“It’s been a pleasure, Peter,” Deucalion says when they’re not even halfway through the bottle of wine. “But all good things must come to an end.”

It’s a total super-villain moment, and Peter is totally expecting Deucalion to reach under his jacket and dramatically produce a gun or something. So is Deucalion, clearly, and he looks very surprised when he comes up empty-handed.

“Looking for this?” Stiles asks from the doorway, dangling a gun from his fingers.

Deucalion’s jaw drops.

“You little shit,” Peter says, completely and utterly in awe. “You glorious little shit.”

Stiles grins, and shows his sharp little fangs.

“You are giving me such an erection right now,” Peter says.

Stiles’s eyes glitter. “I’m also giving Deucalion ten seconds to get the fuck out of here before I shoot him.”

“I think I love you,” Peter says.

“Of course you do,” Stiles says, testing the weight of the gun in his hands as Deucalion flees like a pup with his tail between his legs. “I’m awesome.”

 

***

 

_Thump._

“I thought having him around would make you a better person,” Derek mutters.

_Thump thump thump._

“Hmm?” Peter asks, setting his wine down.

“Pee-ter,” Stiles calls in a sing-song voice from over by the bookshelf.

Peter looks over to where Stiles has his hand poised over a particularly ugly vase. “Now, sweetheart, that’s a nineteenth century famille-verte porcelain vase,” he says. "It is worth an obscene amount of money."

Stiles’s grin grows, the evil little beast.

Peter growls warningly, warmth flooding through him.

Stiles’s tail lashes. He raises his eyebrows. “Meow?”

“Don’t,” Peter says in a low voice.

Stiles bites his lip, and—

 _Crash_.

Ugly bits of porcelain scatter all over the floor.

Peter roars, and leaps up from his chair. He seizes Stiles around the waist, and hoists him up over his shoulder. Stiles hisses and squirms, and Peter spanks his pert little ass firmly.

“It was lovely talking to you, Derek,” he says, heading for his bedroom, “but I owe this little brat a spanking.”

“Bye, Derek!” Stiles yells happily. “I’m gonna get me some angry hate sex now!”

“Oh, Jesus,” Derek mutters, the horror evident in his voice. “He’s as bad as you!”

He has no-one to blame but himself though, so Peter’s not going to lose any sleep over it.

Peter has much better reasons to lose sleep tonight.


	37. Sleepover

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pairing: Stiles/Isaac 
> 
> I'll bet nobody saw that coming!  
> This is a human AU, I guess. Who knows?

Sometimes, when Stiles is growing up, he wanders downstairs in the morning, yawning and trailing his blankie, and there’s some kid sitting at the kitchen table who wasn’t there the night before. Sometimes the kid stay a few hours, and sometimes a few days, and then they’re gone again. Sometimes the kids are older than Stiles, and sometimes they’re younger. Sometimes they’re fun, and sometimes they’re quiet. Once, a girl bites Stiles so hard that he needs to get stitches on his thumb. Mostly though, the sleepover kids are okay.

Stiles is eight when Isaac first sleeps over. Isaac doesn’t magically appear in the middle of the night. He comes home one afternoon in the back seat of Dad’s cruiser, with a plastic bag full of clothes clutched under one arm.

Isaac is one of the quiet ones. He and Stiles color until it’s time for dinner, and Stiles lets Isaac pick all the good pens first. The ones that haven’t dried out because Stiles forgot to put the lids on. They have mac and cheese for dinner, and Isaac goes to sleep in the spare room. The next morning he packs up his clothes again, and Dad drives him away somewhere.

The sleepovers stop when Mom gets sick. Then she gets worse, and then…

Then she’s gone.

Stiles’s dad is gone too, for a long time. He drinks too much. He falls down a lot. It hurts Stiles in ways he’s too little to properly articulate, but mostly he thinks it’s because his dad is so broken that he doesn’t see how much Stiles is hurting too. Stiles _needs_ him, and his dad doesn’t notice. It takes a long time for things to get better again.

There are no more sleepovers, and sometimes Stiles feels like the strangers at the kitchen table in the morning are him and his dad.

It’s not until Stiles is twelve that he realizes those weren’t sleepovers at all.

Those were emergency care placements.

 

***

 

Stiles is fourteen when Isaac comes back. He knows Isaac now. They go to school together. They’re in some of the same classes. Which makes it awkward as all fuck when he has to say hi, and then sit across from him at dinner and try not to speculate as to where all those bruises came from, and wonder if there’s anything worse going on underneath his baggy clothes.

Isaac doesn’t look at him.

He stays for two days, manages to never even exchange a word with Stiles apart from that awkward first greeting, and then he’s gone again.

 

***

 

When Isaac is fifteen, Stiles sees him in the locker room and notices the black and purple bruises across his stomach that don’t seem to come from any lacrosse-related injury. Four hours after Stiles tells his dad, Isaac is sitting on the couch beside Stiles. He’s resting his bandaged fingers in his lap.

“You want a soda or something?” Stiles asks him.

“Okay,” Isaac says with a shrug, like he doesn’t care either way.

Stiles gets him a soda, and they sit in silence and watch TV for a while.

 

***

 

“You know I can’t tell you,” Dad says.

“Dad, c’mon.”

It’s been two week since Isaac’s last visit, and Stiles sees the way Isaac looks at him at school. Like he _hates_ him.

“He wanted to go back,” Dad says at last. “And if he won’t goddamn say otherwise, what the hell is anyone expected to do?”

“Right,” Stiles says. “He just falls down a lot.”

Dad huffs out an unamused laugh. “Right.”

 

***

 

So.

Isaac falls down a lot. And apparently this one time he falls down and manages to lock himself in a freezer in his basement, right? He’s not going back after that. Stiles might catch a glimpse of the crime scene photographs on his dad’s desk at work. Might see the bloody finger marks inside the freezer from where Isaac tried to claw his way out. It makes his stomach churn.

This time there aren’t just bruises to ignore. There are sutures. Plaster casts.

This time it isn’t just overnight.

Isaac’s father is going to jail.

And Isaac is going…

Well, nobody knows where Isaac is going, but Stiles guesses the list of people clambering to take in a fifteen-year-old boy with a history of abuse isn’t exactly long. Okay, so Isaac pretty much hates Stiles, but Stiles still gets the impression that he’d rather be here than anywhere else. Will he even end up with a family? Or will he be stuck in some group home until he ages out of the system? Stiles doesn’t know which one is potentially worse. And he’s not dumb enough to ask Isaac.

Isaac’s situation is not something they talk about. In fact, Isaac seems to spend most of his time ignoring Stiles just like he does at school, and pretending to be the same cold, unaffected douchebag he is on the lacrosse team. Which he could totally pull off, if only he didn’t flinch whenever Stiles makes a sudden movement. And Stiles is made up entirely of sudden movements.

They have some things in common, Stiles thinks, like dead moms and alcoholic dads. Except Stiles’s dad doesn’t drink much anymore and he was never violent, and those aren’t the sort of things you’re supposed to use as conversation starters. It’s just weird not to acknowledge it, when it’s as plain as the bruises on Isaac’s face. Stiles can’t stop sneaking glances to look at where the colour is flowering across his pale skin in blossoms of black and purple, yellowing at the edges like dead leaves. He doesn’t know how someone could _do_ that.

And he’s not allowed to ask.

 

***

 

Isaac has nightmares. Sometimes Stiles wakes up gasping with terror when Isaac screams, and it takes him long moments to remember where he is, and what’s going on. He listens to the tread of his dad’s footsteps down the hall, the slight squeak of the door opening, and then the low murmuring of voices before it’s silent again.

In the morning, everyone pretends it didn’t happen.

 

***

 

At school, Isaac hangs out with Erica and Boyd. Stiles is running late for Chemistry when he sees them sneaking down into the boiler room. He follows them.

“What?” Isaac sneers, and shoves him into the wall. “You gonna snitch on me, Stiles? You gonna tell your daddy?”

His breath stinks of weed. So do his clothes.

Boyd watches silently. Erica laughs.

“You gonna be a bitch about it?” Isaac demands, fingers gripping Stiles’s collar tightly.

Stiles wonders what this feels like for him. Punching down for once. Being the bully. There are a thousand things Stiles could say to cut him to the quick in a heartbeat, and there’s a flash of fear in Isaac’s eyes like he knows it too, but he can’t. Isaac needs this. It’s fucked up, but he needs this.

“I’m not gonna tell,” he says, and Isaac releases him.

Stiles flees back up the stairs, their laughter chasing him.

Later, back at home, he says, while making their after-school sandwiches, “Push me around again, and I’ll tell Boyd and Erica that you wake up screaming at night. Understand?”

Isaac nods, and takes his sandwich to eat in front of the TV.

 

***

 

If Stiles had to categorize it, he’d say that he and Isaac hate one another. But there’s still a line, okay? Stiles knows things about Isaac—the crime scene photographs, the bruises and the bandages, the nightmares—that give him a strange sort of power over Isaac, even if it’s only the power of knowing that behind his smirk he’s a terrified kid who screamed and begged his dad to stop hurting him. Isaac never shared that vulnerability willingly though, and Stiles would never betray it, not really. He wouldn’t. Because there’s still a line.

Stiles thinks it’s called common fucking decency.

But the threat of telling Boyd and Erica works, because Stiles figures nobody’s ever shown Isaac any common fucking decency in his life.

 

***

 

Stiles is awoken by the strangled cry from down the hall. He stares up into the darkness, waiting to hear his dad’s footsteps before he remembers that Dad’s on night shift tonight. It’s okay, right? Maybe Isaac will just go back to sleep and—

A shout, and a muffled cry.

Stiles climbs out of bed, his heart beating fast, and creeps down the hallway. He pushes the door to Isaac’s room open, and listens for a moment. Isaac’s crying, his pillow muffling most of the noise. He’s thrashing around too, like he’s trying to fight someone off. Stiles is pretty sure he knows exactly what Isaac’s nightmare looks like, whose face it wears.

He shuffled forward, bare feet whispering over the carpet. “Isaac?”

Are you supposed to wake people having nightmares or not? Or is that only sleepwalkers? Stiles can’t remember. He sits down on the edge of Isaac’s bed and reaches out tentatively. He puts a hand on Isaac’s shoulder, and Isaac _shrieks_.

“I’m sorry!” Stiles realizes too late that maybe he shouldn’t do anything that feels like holding him down. “Shit, I’m sorry!”

Isaac freezes suddenly, his face still buried in his pillow. He’s awake. Stiles doesn’t know how he knows for sure, but he knows. Something in the way that Isaac’s holding himself now, full of the sort of terrible tension that only awareness can bring.

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” Stiles says, keeping his voice low. He puts his hand out again, and rests it on Isaac’s shoulder. He remembers the way his mom and dad would rub his back when he was feeling sick when he was little, or scared. He wonders if anyone’s ever done that for Isaac, and kills the thought before it takes hold. There’s a line. “Do you want a glass of water or something?”

Isaac shakes his head minutely.

“Um. Do you want to talk about it?” He swallows. “I hear you and Dad talking some nights, is all.”

Isaac shakes his head again.

“Okay. I’ll just—” He withdraws his hand.

“Don’t.” The word is muffled into the pillow.

“What?”

“Don’t go yet. Please.”

“Oh. Okay.” Stiles puts his hand on his shoulder again. “Okay.”

He figures he’ll go back to his own bed when Isaac falls asleep again.

Instead, he wakes up the next morning with his face buried in the crook of Isaac’s throat, and their legs tangled together in the sheets.

 

***

 

At school they don't talk. At home they barely do. But in the middle of the night, when Isaac’s nightmares drag him some place terrible, Stiles curls up with him and keeps him safe until morning. It’s a pattern they fall into while Stiles’s dad is on nights. The next time Dad is home for one of Isaac’s nightmares, Stiles listens to him tread down the hallway, and then hears the sound of them talking in low murmurs.

Stiles hugs his pillow and waits for sleep to find him.

He hears his dad go back to bed.

He hears footsteps.

He’s somehow not surprised when Isaac slips into bed with him.

 

***

 

“We need to talk, kiddo,” Dad says while Isaac’s still upstairs in the shower.

Stiles pauses with the maple syrup poised and ready to shoot all over his pancakes. “What about?”

“About you and Isaac sleeping in the same bed.”

Stiles flails, and squirts syrup over the table. His face burns. “Dad, it’s not, um, it’s not—”

“Stiles, there are a thousand things I don’t have the time to touch on right now,” Dad says. “Like sexuality, and being safe, and consent, and relationships that are platonic or otherwise. Make no mistake, kiddo, I _will_ get to those topics, with both of you, but right now all I want to tell you is this: Isaac’s a special kid. Be careful not to hurt him.”

“Aren’t you…” Stiles clears his throat. _Aren’t you supposed to be giving_ him _the warning, ha ha._ But his dad is dead serious. Bruises, Stiles thinks. Bruises and bandages and a chest freezer with bloody fingerprints on the inside of the lid. “I will, Dad. I’ll be careful.”

It seems like an almost stupid thing to say in the daylight. In the daylight Isaac is sharp angles and narrow glares. In the daylight he’s cut glass. In the daylight he sneers at the world, and at Stiles, and Stiles hates him.

But at night, Stiles keeps him safe.

 

***

 

Stiles has never been anyone’s secret strength before. He’s never been anyone’s anything at all. It’s weird.

“When I was little, I never got how you didn’t even like me,” he says that night.

“What?”

“I thought I was having sleepovers. Why would you come to a sleepover if you didn’t even like me?”

Isaac laughs softly, and Stiles has never heard a sound like it. “I liked you.”

“You did not.” _You do not. Do you?_

“Of course I did. You always gave me the nice pens to use for coloring.”

“You remember that?” Stiles props himself up on his elbow.

“Don’t look at me,” Isaac murmurs, and turns his face into the pillow.

Stiles lies down again. He curls up against Isaac from behind and huffs a breath against the back of his neck, making his curls move. “I’ll close my eyes, okay?”

“Okay.” Isaac threads his fingers through Stiles’s, and presses his hand against his chest.

Stiles can feel Isaac’s heart beating.

He closes his eyes, because he promised he would, and keeps them closed even when Isaac shifts, turning over to face Stiles. Keeps them closed even when Isaac runs his fingertips along his jaw, and then presses his mouth softly against Stiles’s. He keeps them closed when Isaac whispers his goodnight.

He keeps his eyes closed, but not his mouth. “Will you ever do that in the daylight?”

There’s silence for a moment, and Stiles feels a sour swell of humiliation building in his gut. And then:

“Yes,” Isaac whispers, and kisses him one more time. “I will.”

Nights are full of whispered hope and promises.

Days can be, too.


	38. Hunger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An anon on tumblr said: What if a Hale-wolf lives after the fire on the street, perhaps with a human who is homeless. And because of these circumstances he looks more like a sick thin dog than a wolf.
> 
> And I didn't totally follow the prompt--I just wrote this depressing little drabble instead--but it's certainly one I'd like to return to in the future, I think. 
> 
> Pairing: Stiles/Derek. I guess. Who knows at this point?
> 
> UPDATE: This is now a multi chapter fic [here.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10632276)

The wolf is too thin, his belly shrunken and concave, no fat between his thin skin and his brittle bones. He has forgotten how to hunt. He is hunted instead, by the spectre of death. He knows. He doesn’t care. Instead of sticking to the woods where instinct tells the wolf he would be safer—shelter, water, _prey_ —the wolf winds closer and closer into the streets of the human town, and picks through dumpsters and gutters for food.

Here tires screech on asphalt. Cars backfire. The street is hard underneath the pads of the wolf’s paws. Everything is loud and harsh and too, too bright.

The wolf limps down the alleyways, death silently following.

Winter is here. The wolf knows he will not see another one.

The wolf follows his nose. He picks up heady scents above the stink of exhaust fumes and oil and rancid things. The wolf rattles around the trashcans at the back of a cheap diner, and fills his belly with the sick-slickness of greasy burgers. Warmth fills the wolf, and his old friend death steps back for just a moment.

Nose in the air, the wolf continues to explore the alleyway. His claws dig into a pile of damp cardboard as he sidesteps the icy-cold puddle of rain, oil-slicked, in the gutter.

“Hey!” someone says, and the cardboard shifts.

The wolf skitters back, and then remembers that he is a predator. He stops, and turns, and growls.

A boy’s face appears from underneath a layer of the cardboard. It is pale. His eyes are bloodshot and his lips are blue. He has a spray of moles across his face like an unfamiliar constellation. The boy freezes when he sees the wolf. “Holy _shit_.”

The wolf and death stare back at the boy.

The wolf has forgotten how to mark time.

He has no idea how long it is he stands there.

 

***

 

The boy’s bones are as brittle as the wolf’s, his skin as thin. When he curls his fingers through the wolf’s ruff, they are like icicles. His breath though, is hot. It tickles the wolf’s fur when he buries his face against it. His tears taste like salt.

Death circles them, in the little den the boy has made behind the cardboard in an alleyway in the cold, cold town.

The wolf tugs himself from the boy’s grip, and slinks back down the alley to the trashcans. His boy is too cold, too weak to crawl this far, so the wolf picks up a discarded burger in his jaws and carries it back to him.

The boy eats it, crying.

The wolf curls around him when they sleep.

Death steps closer, its black mouth open in hunger.

The wolf growls at it, the sound rumbling through his thin ribcage.

Not tonight.

Not tomorrow.

Maybe not this winter at all.

The wolf has a den now, and a heartbeat to share it with.

When the boy is strong again they will go into the woods and build a shelter there, and the wolf will remember his instincts, and the boy will learn his, and they will be packmates there, where the ground is soft underneath their feet and the stars are visible at night.


	39. The Nöck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pairing: Stiles/Derek 
> 
> This one is inspired by this incredible picture here:   
> 
> 
> “He’s the one, the hunters favorite trophy. Found in the deep woods of Poland, a Nöck, Nix or like the old high german word: nichessa. He’s a old and rare water spirit and guardian of rivers and lakes, son of the forest. The hunter has found him, trapped him and made him a part of his numerous collection of creatures, monsters and spirits he seeks after all over the world.   
> And here the Nöck is waiting in his prison of glass.” 
> 
> The artist is suis0u, and everyone should follow [their Tumblr](http://suis0u.tumblr.com)

There’s something behind the glass.

From his cage on the opposite side of the wide hallway, Derek can’t see much. There isn’t a lot of light wherever the hell this place is. There are spotlights in Derek’s cell that are turned on whenever the guards come to feed him, or to clean out his cell, or when the people come to stare at him. Derek doesn’t like the spotlights. They’re bright and hot and hurt his eyes. It makes Gerard Argent laugh when he cowers away from them.

The lights behind the glass are different. They’re muted. And whatever it is behind the glass, Gerard Argent doesn’t laugh at it. Whatever it is, he is mesmerized by it.

Derek’s cell is divided in two. It’s three solid walls and a row of bars between him and the hallway. There’s another row of bars bisecting his cell, creating a small secondary section. He is shuffled into the small section whenever his guards require access to the main cell. It’s a secure system. When it’s time for food, or time for his cell to be cleaned, a magnetic lock disengages and Derek walks through to the smaller section of his cell. The door locks again behind him.

Derek hasn’t been within reach of any of the guards since they brought him here. Once, a woman in the hallway stood too close to the bars and Derek lunged at her. A blast of electricity from the shock collar around his throat brought him down before he could even reach her. He has learned not to get too close to the front bars since.

There is nothing to do in his cell except sit or pace. There is no way to judge the passage of time.

He sleeps when the lights are low. He cowers when they are turned on.

Whatever is behind the glass on the other side of the wide hallway must be more valuable than a common werewolf. It’s no cell behind that glass. It’s a habitat. It’s… it’s a terrarium. No, it’s an aquarium. There are rocks, and water, and lilies and plants.

There is a section of glass in front of Derek’s cell that is a window directly into the shadowy water. Derek catches glimpses of movement sometimes, but not enough to get any sense of what it is he’s looking at.

Sometimes he hears the faint splash of water and, once, a low keening sound that made him want to howl in sympathy.

Derek doesn’t know how long he’s been held in the facility (zoo?) when he finally finds out what the creature is. Gerard brings a pair of men in suits to stare at him first. One of the guards shoots him with a dart laced with wolfsbane. It’s not enough to cause any permanent damage, but it brings on his beta shift. The men in suits both step back and Gerard Argent laughs.

“Now, this,” he says, and draws them away from Derek’s cage and toward the glass, “is a true collector’s item. This is a Nöck. It’s an ancient water spirit. Cost me three years to locate, at least five million, and the lives of four of my men.”

The men in suits lean closer to the glass.

Derek feels a burst of envy for the Nöck, for killing four of Gerard’s men. At least it was taken in a fight. Derek was seduced by Kate Argent, and drugged in his sleep.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Gerard asks, preening, and Derek wishes he was close enough to see into the water.

He wonders what a Nöck looks like.

 

***

 

It happens when the lights are low. Derek’s cell is in darkness, barely illuminated by the soft lights of the hallway. He sits in front of the bars and stares across at the glass. The water ripples, and Derek’s skin prickles in anticipation.

Very slowly, the Nöck rises from under the water.

He has a human form. A boy’s face. He has short dark hair. There is a greenish tinge to his skin that Derek doesn’t think is a trick of the lighting. There is a hint of some rough texture around his eyes, across his brow. Scales? The Nöck keeps his eyes closed as the water drips from his hair, and runs in rivulets down his face.

When he opens them, he’s staring right at Derek.

His eyes shine almost beta-gold in the low light. His lips move, the words somehow pitched so that Derek’s wolf hearing can catch them, even through the glass.

“Czy możesz mi pomóc?”

Derek has no idea what he is saying.

 

***

 

They interact more often after that.

Derek paces up and down the length of his cell, and the Nöck mirrors him across the hallway. He presses his fingers against the glass, and makes it squeak. Once, he presses his face against it too, squashing his snub nose, and Derek smiles for the first time in what might be weeks by now.

He wonders how long he’s been in his cell.

He wonders how long the Nöck has been trapped behind the glass.

 

***

 

Sometimes the Nöck sings, except not in words. The sounds he produces make Derek think of water: a burbling stream, a whispering cascade, or the gentle patter of rain into a deep woodland pool. When the Nöck sings Derek can smell magic. He would usually recoil from the ozone scent of it—werewolves are distrustful of magic users—but the Nöck’s song hits the exact same pitch of Derek’s homesickness and despair, and he howls when the Nöck sings.

“Czy możesz mi pomóc?” the Nöck asks sometimes, but the question has lost its intensity over time. Whatever it is the Nöck is asking Derek, he’s clearly lost all hope.

 

***

 

It’s been months when it happens. It’s the simplest thing. The spotlights are turned on in Derek’s cage, and the magnetic lock disengages. Derek growls, and climbs to his feet. He pushes the door into the second cage open, and it swings shut behind him.

Derek expects to hear the dull thunk of the magnetic lock engaging again.

He doesn’t hear it.

He fights to keep all expression off his face. Across the hall, the Nöck is lurking under the water, watching Derek through the glass. His eyes are wide.

When the two guards come down the hallway, the Nöck drifts back out of sight, but Derek knows he’s still watching.

There’s a routine. There’s always a routine.

One guard will remain out in the hallway while the other one cleans out Derek’s cell. The guard will spray his bedding with disinfectant, and scrub the walls and floor with bleach, and tip the rest of the bleach down the metal toilet. Then he’ll leave a tray of food, and go. The lock between Derek’s cell and Derek’s temporary cell will only disengage once the guard is safely back out in the hallway again.

Derek usually hates cleaning day. It stinks of bleach for days afterward.

He doesn’t hate it today.

He waits until the guard steps inside his cell with the cleaning gear, and then he moves. He pushes back through into the main cell, ignoring the man’s scream of terror. He grabs for the man, slashes his throat with his claws, and has the man’s firearm out and pointed at the second guard still outside the cell before the second man even has time to react.

This isn’t an escape plan. At least not for Derek. This is revenge. If Derek’s going to die here—and he’s going to die here—then he’s at least going to take some of them with him.

He shoots the second guard and then, panting, moves as close as he can to the bars without activating his shock collar.

Across the hallway, the Nöck stares at him through the glass, gold eyes bright.

Derek shows it the gun, and points it at the glass.

The Nöck swirls through the water, putting as much space as it can between him and the point where Derek is aiming.

Derek fires, and fires, and fires again until the clip is empty. Spider web cracks burst like coronas on the glass. Derek drops the gun. From somewhere in the distance he can hear an alarm blaring.

The Nöck appears behind the glass again, his brow furrowed. He bangs his fists against the glass. Once, twice, three times. Then, keening in frustration, he swims away and is lost to Derek’s sight.

Derek’s shoulders sag in defeat.

He sees a blur of movement in the water again, as the Nöck barrels toward the glass.

And suddenly the glass is smashing, and water is flooding the hallway, washing into Derek’s cell. There’s a naked green-skinned boy riding the crest of it. His hands are bloody, and his eyes are shining gold.

The Nöck climbs to his feet and splashes over to Derek’s cell. “Chodź ze mną!”

“I don’t understand a word you’re saying!”

“Chodź ze mną!” the Nöck repeats, and wraps his long, thin fingers around the bars.

“You’d better be stronger than you look,” Derek says.

The Nöck grins.

 

***

 

The Nöck is much stronger than he looks. He makes short work of the bars, of Derek’s shock collar, and, eventually, of Gerard Argent himself. Derek has never seen anything like it. The Nöck wraps his fingers around Gerard’s throat, and whispers something to him that doesn’t quite sound like words. Water bubbles out of Gerard mouth. He chokes on it. He drowns, standing up, in his own office.

Between them, Derek and the Nöck make sure that not a single guard survives.

There are other prisoners, other levels, and Derek doesn’t know what to do. The Nöck hums curiously as they find more and more cages inside the complex, with creatures inside that Derek has never seen before. None of them, though, seem as magical as the Nöck.

Derek takes a cell phone off a dead guard, and calls his mom and Deaton.

 

***

 

There’s a lake about a mile back from the Hale house, deep in the Preserve. The Nöck is drawn to it. He’s happy enough to stay with the Hales in the house for a few hours at a time, but when he invariably goes missing Derek knows just where to find him. The Nöck—he goes by Stiles now—rises slowly from the lake whenever Derek comes to the shore, and Derek’s breath catches in his throat every time. He is ancient and deadly and more powerful than Derek can comprehend, but his laughter sounds like the splashing of water over rocks and his kisses taste like rainwater, and the first words he says in English are, “I love you.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here’s a translation of the Polish, if Google didn’t lie to me:
> 
> “Czy możesz mi pomóc?” - “Can you help me?”
> 
> “Chodź ze mną!” - “Come with me!”


	40. Conventional

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pairing: Stiles/Peter
> 
> A tiny drabble that was born out of the idea that Peter becomes an Alpha again. Here's the ask that sparked the drabble: 
> 
> Anonymous asked: Heh the Convention one. Poor Stiles is so confused as to why everyone is treating him with the same reverence they're showing Peter when he's just an average Beta (who sure sometimes sleeps with Peter but so what) but then he finds out everyone thinks he's the Alpha Mate and he laughs about it with Peter only to realize Peter's not laughing with him but is instead regarding him with a very smug smirk. S: Why didn't you tell me we were mates? P: I didn't want the power going to your head dear.
> 
> And here's Peter's expression for most of the fic:  
> 

They’ve been at the Convention for three days when it all comes to a head. Peter is on his way back upstairs–he booked a room, but was upgraded to a penthouse suite at no extra cost–when the elevator doors ping open and Stiles bursts out into the hallway. He’s wearing his board shorts, a faded t-shirt, and one of the resort’s ridiculously overpriced fluffy robes. 

“Peter! Help!” he gasps, diving behind him just as the next elevator in the row opens and the hotel manager steps out. 

“What have you done, Stiles?” Peter asks in an undertone, fixing a pleasant smile on his face as the harried-looking manager moves toward him. 

“Stole this robe,” Stiles mumbles into the back of his shoulder. “And a fruit basket. And champagne.” 

Peter smirks. 

The manager hurries closer. He’s holding out a basket. Truffles, if Peter’s nose isn’t mistaken. And of course it rarely is. 

“Alpha Hale!” the manager exclaims. “I’m afraid there’s been a terrible misunderstanding!” 

Cowering behind Peter, Stiles meeps. 

“You know,” Peter agrees, “I rather think there has.” 

He steps aside, leaving Stiles blinking owlishly at the manager. 

The manager steps forward, holding out the basket of truffles. 

“Look,” Stiles says. “I’m really sorry, but it was all right there, right beside my pool lounger, and omigod, please don’t charge me thousands and thousands of dollars for a bathrobe. Even if it is as soft as fluffy clouds.” 

The manager looks startled. “Mr. Stilinski, these are  _complimentary_.” 

“Excuse me?” Stiles asks, his mouth dropping open.

“The hotel traditionally provides gifts to the mate of the Alpha,” the manager says, faltering slightly. “It is a way of marking our respect.” 

“Oh.” 

The manager thrusts the basket of truffles forward. 

Stiles takes it, his nose wrinkling. 

“It’s his first convention,” Peter says, and puts his arm around Stiles’s shoulders. 

“Oh,” says the manager. “Shall I have some more champagne sent up, Alpha Hale?” 

“That would be very much appreciated,” Peter tells him, and the manager excuses himself and heads back to the elevators. 

“Omigod,” Stiles mutters as the doors shut behind the man. “They were  _trying_  to give me this stuff?” He wrinkles his nose. “So I wasn’t actually stealing it?” 

“No,” Peter says. “I’m sure they were terribly confused when you ran like a startled racoon caught going through the trash.” 

“I thought they made a mistake!” Stiles exclaims, and then huffs out a laugh. “Although they did, right? Me, your mate!” He snorts. 

Peter raises his eyebrows. 

Stiles really does turn the most lovely shade of red. “Holy shit. I’m your mate.” 

“Yes, sweetheart,” Peter tells him. “Did all the fucking not give it away at all?” 

Stiles gasps and clutches his basket of truffles to his chest. “Why didn’t you tell me? I could have been bullying hotel staff and servers and  _Derek_  for months! Peeeeter! “ he whines. “I could have had whole collections of these weird smelly fungus things! And all the champagne in the universe!”  

Peter leans in and presses a kiss to his temple. “I didn’t want the power going to your head, dear.”

“I’m going to be a  _diva_!” Stiles announces. “You just wait! I’m going to develop obscenely expensive tastes! I’m going to be a fucking  _Kardashian,_ just you watch!” 

Twenty minutes later he’s on the phone to the hotel manager asking if he can swap his basket of truffles for chips and soda. Peter, lounging on the bed with a champagne flute in one hand, laughs. He’s surprised Stiles held out as long as he did. 

 


	41. The End Chapters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pairing: John Stilinski/Peter Hale
> 
> Background: John Stilinski/Claudia Stilinski.  
> And some Sterek if you squint.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From an anon Tumblr prompt: young Peter gets the xth time arrested by Deputy Stilinski, who can't understand why nowadays Peter gets caught every time (since he fished a very wet Peter out of the fountain on mainstreet)
> 
> this turned out to be a lot more angst and a lot less fluff than I had intended. Oh well!

 

There’s something in Claudia’s laugh when he tells her that John doesn’t quite get.

“What?” he asks, jostling for space in the tiny kitchen of their tiny apartment, and her smile grows. “What?”

She reaches past him to help herself to a handful of the corn chips he just tipped into a bowl. Her eyes are bright and sparkle with mischief. “He’s got a crush on you!”

“What?” John scoffs, the color rising in his cheeks. “Don’t be ridiculous!”

Claudia laughs, and hooks her fingers through his belt loops. She reels him in for a kiss. “Who’s being ridiculous? You’re hot as hell, Deputy Stilinski.” She slaps him on the ass. “And you’re all mine too, and don’t you forget it!”

Forget it? John’s the luckiest man alive. Of course he’d never forget it.

 

***

 

The next week when John fishes a very wet, very dripping, very clingy Peter Hale out of the fountain on Main Street, he figures that Claudia very possibly has a point. Peter only seems to get in trouble when John’s on duty, and he bites his lip when he’s being frisked and pushes back in a way that is incredibly disconcerting. He’s a _teenager_. The kid’s only fifteen years old, for god’s sake, and John really can’t even begin to list the ways that’s creepy as all fuck.

“I’m getting pretty tired of this, Peter,” John says as he’s putting Peter into the back of his cruiser. “Watch your head.”

Peter clambers in, his wet jeans squelching. He pouts a little. “Don’t be such a killjoy, Deputy Stilinski.”

Then, when he knows John’s watching, he swipes his tongue over his lower lip and blinks slowly.

Dammit. Claudia was right.

John slams the door shut and climbs into the driver’s seat.

He has absolutely no doubt that, if he asked, Peter would happily drop to his knees and blow him. Jesus. The most sickening thing about that scenario is that somewhere there exists the sort of predator who _would_ ask.

“You need to stop this nonsense, Peter,” he says sternly. “I’m pretty sure your parents are getting tired of picking you up from the station.”

In the rear view mirror, Peter slumps against the back seat and rolls his eyes.

“And I’m getting pretty tired of it too,” John says. He holds Peter’s gaze. “I know what you’re playing at, and it’s not cute, it’s not funny, and it’s never going to happen.”

Something that’s almost like vulnerability flashes across the kid’s face, before he juts his bottom lip out in a petulant scowl and rolls his eyes again.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Deputy,” he says.

He clearly does though, since he doesn’t cross John’s radar again for months.

 

***

 

The house is incredible. Okay, so it needs some work, but it’s incredible. John and some of his buddies from the station make a weekend of it and get the fence repaired, the kitchen linoleum torn out, and the roof fixed. Then, in the following weeks and months he and Claudia work on the rest.

They paint the nursery walls yellow.

It’s their first house, and it’s going to be their baby’s home.

It’s incredible.

 

***

 

“Congratulations,” Peter Hale says. He’s seventeen now, and he’s drunk, and he’s leaning on the hood of John’s cruiser breathing out bourbon fumes that are as strong as paint stripper.

“Mr. Hale,” John says. “Long time no see.”

“Congratulations,” Peter says again, shoving his hands into his impossibly tight jeans.

“For?” John prompts.

“Your kid,” Peter says. He juts his chin out. “I saw the birth notice in the paper. Little Unpronounceable Stilinski. I’ll bet you’ll be a good dad. I’ll bet you’ll be…” He tugs one hand free and waves it in a vague circle in the air. “Not an _asshole_.”

“That’s the plan,” John agrees, and wonders how much of Peter’s behaviour stems from the fact he can’t say the same about his own father. There’s no outward sign that John’s ever noticed when it comes to the Hales, but who knows better than John the lengths kids go to hide their own mistreatment? “What are you doing out here tonight, Peter?”

“Drowning my sorrows,” Peter says, and then flashes him a brilliant grin. “Turns out those fuckers can swim though.”

“They sure can,” John agrees. He leans on the hood beside Peter. “Want to talk about it?”

“I really do not,” Peter says. “Not with an officer of the _law_.”

“Hypothetically,” John says.

Peter sighs. “Hypothetically, my boyfriend dumped me because his father has told him he has to get married to a woman he doesn’t even know.”

“What?” John scrunches his forehead up in confusing. “You’re a _teenager_.”

Peter gives him the side eye. “My boyfriend’s not.”

“How old?” John asks, keeping his voice level.

“Twenty-four,” Peter says, and the corners of his mouth lift in a fleeting, bitter smile. “Hypothetically.”

“Peter.” John feels a stab of guilt. Is this what happened? He rejected the kid, so he went looking somewhere else for an older guy who wouldn’t? John wants to find out who the fuck this _boyfriend_ is, and beat the living hell out of him. “What’s his name?”

Peter shakes his head. “He doesn’t deserve that.”

“Peter, he deserves to be in _prison_.”

“It’s complicated,” Peter says softly.

“It’s really not.”

Peter’s eyes shine blue in the light from a passing car. “You ever loved someone you shouldn’t, Deputy?”

“No.” John’s voice sounds gruff to his own ears.

Peter sighs. “Sometimes it feels like that’s all I do.”

The silence between them is laden.

“It was more than a crush,” Peter says, and panic flutters in John’s gut because in this moment he knows that Peter’s not talking about his older boyfriend. He _knows_. “It was love, for what it matters.”

“Get in the car, Peter,” John says, “and I’ll drive you home.”

 

***

 

 

“I saw Peter Hale tonight,” he tells Claudia when he gets home.

She’s nursing the baby, a towel over her shoulder and bags under her eyes, but she’s still the most beautiful woman John has ever seen. “Oh?”

“He doesn’t have a crush on me,” John says. “It’s worse than that. He’s actually in love with me.”

Claudia is silent for a moment, and then her mouth curves into a gentle smile. “He sounds like a smart kid.”

 

***

 

The story should end there.

It doesn’t.

Peter Hale graduates high school and goes off to college. He does something to do with art history. John doesn’t really know, except it seems an odd choice for a boy he vividly remembers hauling out of the fountain in Main Street, his wet clothes clinging to him, and tendrils of his hair stuck to his forehead. Peter was wild, a teenager pushing back against whatever cage it was he found himself in, and John really can’t imagine him quietly soaking up the atmosphere in museums, or surrounded by dusty books. Except, also, he _can_.

He hopes Peter finds a way to be happy.

John is happy.

He is married to his beautiful, amazing wife, and they have an energetic, miraculous, frustrating son who fills their life in a way John couldn’t even imagine before he became a parent.

John is happy.

And then Claudia is diagnosed.

 

***

 

Toward the end he is rushed off his feet. Claudia is in the hospital, and they both know she’s never coming home. John wants to spend every second with her, but he still has his job, and he still has to get Stiles off to school in the mornings. The world should have the fucking decency to stop when John’s life is falling apart so dramatically, but it doesn’t. Claudia’s moments of lucidity are fewer and farther between, and Stiles starts wailing when John takes him up to visit and John tries to tell him that Mom doesn’t mean the hurtful things she says, that she still loves him, she will always love him, that it’s the disease talking, not Mom. Stiles is eight though, and too small to truly understand. One day he decides not to take Stiles to visit, and of course Claudia is lucid then, and cries because Stiles didn’t come.

Whatever John does, whatever he decides, he’s hurting one of them.

It’s a mess.

He goes to the hospital one afternoon, Stiles clutching his hand tightly and looking like he’s going to be sick, and they walk into Claudia’s room to find she’s not alone.

There’s a young man sitting beside her, reading aloud from a book.

Peter.

Peter Hale.

He sets aside the book when he sees John and Stiles, and color creeps up his cheeks.

“Oh,” Claudia says. “You must finish the story. John, tell him he must finish the story.” Her voice is faint, and John doesn’t know how present she really is today. She reaches out and curls her trembling fingers around Peter’s wrist. “You have the end.”

“Excuse me?” Peter asks.

She smiles, beatific. “The end. All those chapters at the end are for you.” Her brow wrinkles. “John? Where’s my wedding ring? I can’t find it. Did someone steal it?”

Peter slips away while John takes her hand to show her she’s still wearing her ring.

 

***

 

After the funeral, John comes back to visit her grave. Someone has left a book underneath the headstone. It takes a moment for John to place it. It’s the book Peter was reading her in the hospital.

 

***

 

John tries to drown his sorrows for longer than he should. Turns out Peter was right. Those fuckers can swim.

 

***

 

The Hale fire is a terrible thing. Eight people die, including children. There’s one—so badly burned that John isn’t even sure which child it is—that he carries outside. The child stops breathing in his arms, and all John can think of is how Stiles weighs the same.

He doesn’t drink that night.

He doesn’t drink again.

In the morning he hugs Stiles so tight that Stiles complains he can’t breathe.

 

***

 

It’s the same book, but it’s not the same copy. John ordered this one on Amazon. He finds the prose rather heavy-going in places, the imagery beautiful but complex. John’s not ashamed to admit that most of the story goes right over his head, but he sits beside Peter Hale’s bed in the hospital and reads it aloud anyway.

He doesn’t know if Peter hears him or not.

When John finishes that book, he buys another, and then another.

The days turn into months turn into years.

The books stack up in a pile beside Peter’s bed.

 

***

 

Peter’s eyes are not blue the next time John sees them. They’re red.

The world is a very different place than the one John thought he knew when he got out of bed this morning. Suddenly he’s standing outside the remains of the Hale house, Kate Argent is dead on the ground with her brother standing over her, half the high school is apparently here, and Stiles is holding what appears to be a Molotov cocktail.

 _Stiles_.

If Stiles survives tonight, he is so fucking grounded.

“Hurt my son,” John tells Peter, “or any of these other kids, and I will put you down, Peter. Do you hear me?”

Peter growls, and shakes his head, and suddenly he is human again. Suddenly his eyes are blue again. “John?” he asks, his tone uncertain. “John Stilinski?”

 

***

 

Werewolves are a thing.

What’s craziest about that statement is how much it makes _sense_.

 

***

 

It takes weeks for the dust to settle from the fallout at the Hale house that night. It takes longer than that still to even begin addressing the emotional trauma of most of the participants.

“Derek will never forgive me,” Peter says one night, his voice quiet, as he and John sit on the back porch with a beer each. Upstairs, Stiles’s light is on, and John is _not_ thinking about whether or not Derek is sneaking into his kid’s bedroom.

“I’m not sure you can expect him to,” John tells him.

Peter compresses his mouth into a thin line and gives a jerky nod. He reminds John of that vulnerable teenager from all those years ago. “I just wanted…” He closes his eyes briefly. “Now that it’s over…”

John reaches out and takes his hand. Squeezes it. “It’s not over, Peter.”

Peter opens his eyes and meets his gaze.

“You and me, Peter,” John says, “we’ve still got all the end chapters to go, remember?”

“The end chapters,” Peter echoes.

“Let make ’em worth reading, huh?” John says and then leans in and kisses him.

The story doesn’t end there either.


	42. Painted Wooden Letters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pairing: none (yet) 
> 
> For the anon on Tumblr who asked: You know, Winter, I'm always a slut for hurt!Stiles so I want to ask you, if you have ever thought to write a fic where his father became an alcoholic and beat the shit out of him and everyone just kinda ignores it because they think it's none of their business and then comes Derek and sees him and just knows and wants to help?? Sorry, you probably have other stuff to do but you seem so cool and I don't know where else to rant.
> 
> ***  
> And I couldn't write bad!Sheriff for reasons (I LOVE THAT MAN!) so I had to think a little about how to write hurt!Stiles while keeping my Sheriff love alive. And this is how I'd do it, basically. 
> 
> And yes, this one will probably be extended at some point, but for now let's consider this a prologue.  
> EDITED: It got bigger. You can find the extended 10K story here: [Painted Wooden Letters](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11865159)

There are painted wooden letters that spell out his name in a frame on Mieczysław Reid’s bedroom wall. His mom bought them at the craft store, and decorated them even before he was born. None of the kids in Mieczysław’s first grade class know how to say his name. None of them talk to him anyway, since he always gets in trouble and also he gets lice a lot. Last time he came home with a note from the school saying the lice were back, Audrey buzzed all his hair and put kerosene on what was left. It burned, and he got a blister behind his ear that popped and hurt for days and days afterward.

“What the fuck you crying for?” Dad asked him, and threw a can at him to make him go away.

Mieczysław is six. He sometimes lies awake at night and looks at the letters on the wall. Mom was the only one who knows how to say his name, but she’s gone now. She died. Even his Dad can’t say it. Sometimes he looks at the wooden letters, every one painted a different color, and wonders if his mom loved him when he was still in her belly what would it be like it she was still here?

Audrey and Dad fight at lot.

They live out of town in a house by the wreckers’ yard. Dad owns the yard. They don’t have many neighbors, but sometimes the wind must carry their voices, because someone calls the police.

Mieczysław stands behind his bedroom door when the deputies come, watching through the gap.

Audrey and Dad stop shouting and yelling then. Sometimes they even laugh and tell the deputies it was nothing. Just letting off steam. And Mieczysław shuts his mouth, because he knows better than to say otherwise, and usually the police take a look around and then go away again.

Except for one night, and one deputy.

Mieczysław hasn’t seen this deputy before. He’s tall. Mieczysław is six though. Everyone is tall. He has blue eyes the same color as the sky just before it softens into dusk. The skin around his eyes crinkles when he sees Mieczysław peering around the door and he smiles.

“Hey, kiddo.”

Mieczysław clamps his mouth shut.

“Who’s this?” the deputy asks.

“My kid,” Dad says. “Mitch.”

Audrey looks at him sidelong, and lights a cigarette.

Mieczysław scurries back into his room. He sits down between his bed and the far wall, and digs his school library book out of his bag. He’s not good at reading. It’s hard to concentrate like the other kids do; just another thing he gets wrong all the time. But he likes the pictures.

He flicks through the thin book, half-listening to the rise and fall of voices outside his room. To Audrey and Dad, and the deputy. He jolts with surprise when the door to his room opens.

“Hey,” the deputy says. His gaze rakes over the room, eyes narrowing slightly. And then he sees the wooden letters in the frame and says, every syllable perfect: “Mieczysław, right?”

Mieczysław gasps in surprise. “How did you know that?”

The deputy smiles, and sits down on Mieczysław’s bed. He pats the mattress, and Mieczysław, totally disarmed by the deputy’s magical pronunciation, scrambles up to sit beside him.

“My name is John,” the deputy says, and then lowers his voice like he’s sharing a great secret. “But it’s really Janusz.”

Mieczysław’s mouth falls open.

John smiles at him, and leans over to pick up the book. He looks at the cover for a moment, and then looks at Mieczysław again. “Are you okay, Mieczysław?”

Mieczysław nods rapidly, unable to voice the lie.

“Do Mom and Dad fight a lot?” John asks him.

A shake of the head this time. He can’t bring himself to correct John’s assumption that Audrey is his mom. She’s _not_ though. She’s not.

“Okay,” John says at last with a long sigh. He takes a card from his pocket and slips it in between the pages of the book. “If you need me, you can use this number to call me, okay? Or you can call 911. Or you can ask a teacher or a friend to call me. Do you understand, Mieczysław?”

“Yes,” Mieczysław says.

“Okay,” John says again.

Mieczysław keeps his eyes fixed on the book until John goes. Then he plucks the card out with shaking fingers, and—

“What the hell is this?” Audrey asks, snatching it from his grasp. “You don’t need this.”

She tears the card into pieces, and stalks away.

Later, when the house is very quiet and very dark, Mieczysław creeps out into the kitchen and goes through the trash. He never does find all the pieces of the card:

 

s Sheriff’s D

_uty John Stil_

_09) 385-757_

 

He doesn’t know why he saves the bits of card he finds.

He doesn’t know why he fixates on the half-destroyed name of the man who said his with such ease.

Maybe it’s because he told himself that _Mieczysław_ was a secret, a strange gift, a magical spell that only he and Mom could say. Like a password to get into a secret club, like the ones the kids at school have, except Mieczysław never knows the secret word. And maybe if Deputy John does, then Mieczysław doesn’t need to be the only one in his club, right?

The idea of that makes him feel dizzy and sick and exhilarated at all the same time.

Maybe if Deputy John knows how to say his name, then he’s supposed to belong to Deputy John. And maybe that means that Deputy John can belong to him too.

The next day at school, mindful of his bruises, Mieczysław sits and tries not to fidget. They have a substitute teacher because Mrs. Frank is sick. The man calls the roll and gets as far as Mieczysław’s name before he stumbles.

“I don’t know how to say this,” he says, and all the other kids laugh.

Mieczysław is breathless. He juts his chin out, and says, “My name is Stiles.”


	43. The Beast of Gévaudan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pairing: Chris Argent/Isaac Lahey

“What happens if I leave?”

Chris blinks for a moment, as startled by the question as he is by the fact that Isaac Lahey knocked on his door at 3 a.m. The kid looks like he hasn’t slept in days. Chris knows that feeling. Isaac’s wearing a haunted, hunted look that makes it seem like he’s a heartbeat away from turning and fleeing back into the night. The shadows under his eyes are as dark as bruises.

Chris sighs and leans on the doorjamb.

“What happens if I leave?” Isaac asks again, his voice small. “Do I become an omega? Do I turn feral?”

Jesus.

A town full of werewolves, and Isaac’s asking a hunter that question.

Chris doesn’t turn him away. He can’t.

Who knows more than Chris what it feels like to be entirely alone?

He straightens up. “Come in. Let’s talk.”

Isaac steps inside, shoulders hunched defensively.

Chris closes the door behind him.

 

***

 

It’s been years since Chris has been back to Lozère, to the ancestral home of the Argent family. It’s less grand that it sounds. The house, built back sometime in the 1600s, is dark and cold, full of low doorways, narrow windows, and uneven stonework. It’s big. Three floors and a cellar. It’d probably be worth millions if there was anyone who’d be interested in buying a place so very far from civilization. Sainte-Enimie, the nearest village, is half an hour away by SUV, and twenty minutes of that is following a narrow _draille_ that winds down the side of the valley until it meets the road into the village.

The plumbing in the house is ancient, but it works. The pipes groan and thump complainingly, but still draw water. There are solar panels on the roof, and an off-grid battery bank in the basement. Cell phone and internet reception is patchy at best.

Still, the old stone house with its dramatic view into the gorge and the Tarn river far, far below must be like nothing Isaac has ever seen before.

It’s quiet here.

The hills are windswept, almost desolate. The gorge cuts between them, a deep wound carved out of the earth as though by a giant claw. Trees grow in the shelter of the gorge, thick and wild, but they are few and far between on the peaks of the hills. Sheep and goats roam and graze, picking their way across the rocky ground, calling to one another in thin bleats that are snatched away by the wind.

Allison never came here.

It’s the only thing that makes the place bearable to Chris right now. He can’t be any place she once was, not now. Not ever, maybe.

It’s quiet here.

It’s enough.

 

***

 

Chris and Isaac are like ghosts in those first few weeks. They drift around the edges of each other’s awareness. They don’t speak much. Sometimes Chris watches Isaac from a window as the boy is out wandering the hills, and wonders if he should laugh or not.

After two hundred and fifty years there is another beast of Gévaudan, and this time an Argent brought him here.

 

***

 

“I don’t want to be feral,” Isaac almost whimpers as Chris chains him for the full moon. There’s something trusting in the way he lifts his wrists for Chris to do it. Something vulnerable in the way he turns them toward Chris, pale veins showing. “I don’t want to be an omega. What do I _do_?”

His first full moon without a pack. Without an alpha. Neither of them trust his control for this.

“Find an anchor, Isaac.” Chris locks the shackles into place, cold steel wrapping around warm skin. “You can do this.”

Isaac nods, wide-eyed.

 

***

 

It’s a long night.

Chris spends some of it upstairs, reading. There are books in the library that date back centuries. Some in French, but some in the local dialect still spoken by some of the older people in town.  It reminds him a little of Isaac’s first trip to Sainte-Enimie, and how he’d told Chris haltingly that he’d got an A in French at school.

“Huh,” Chris had said, fighting a smile that came from God only knows where. 

The look of confusion on Isaac’s face when he’d heard a couple of elderly women speaking Languedocien in the small supermarket though…

Chris flips through the pages of the book he’s reading, listening out for any noises from the basement.

He’s left a light on.

What sort of werewolf is afraid of the dark?

Chris finds that’s very much something he doesn’t want to think about.

The night passes slowly.

 

***

 

In the morning Isaac is wrung out. He climbs into his bed and tugs the comforter up over him.

“Okay?” Chris asks him, leaning in the doorway.

Isaac is facing away from him, curled up on his side. “Yeah.”

“You found an anchor?”

“Yeah,” Isaac whispers. “Guess you won’t need that gun you’ve been carrying since last night, hey?”

Chris supposes he can smell the wolfsbane in the ammunition. “I guess I won’t.”

It’s a thing that’s gone unspoken between them until now, but Isaac’s no fool.

He’s known since the moment he put his life in the hands of a hunter what would happen if he couldn’t control his shift, but he did it anyway.

Chris doesn’t think it has anything to do with trust exactly.

Just that Isaac had nowhere else to go.

 

***

 

It takes months before they talk, before Isaac opens up to him, or perhaps before Chris unbends enough to be receptive. They’re both still grieving, and not just for Allison. Isaac’s lost his father, and his pack, and Chris has lost Victoria. They’re both very much alone, except they’ve chosen to be alone together.

Maybe that means something, or maybe it’s just bullshit.

Chris doesn’t know.

It doesn’t matter. Not really.

He’s got an extra pair of hands to help lug firewood and work on cleaning the chimneys and replacing the cracked tiles on the roof, so what does it matter what the hell it is?

He listens when Isaac talks a little about his father. Listens with something like recognition unfurling in his gut, because he knows what it’s like to be a boy and have a grown man crowd into his space, scream at him. He knows what it’s like to take more hits than his body could handle. Gerard called it training, but Chris knows better.

Took him a while, longer than it should have, but he knows better.

He listens to Isaac stumble over his words when he talks about how Derek gave him the bite. How being a werewolf is something Isaac is still trying to understand. How it felt at first. How he was strong, how he was arrogant, and then, abruptly, how it was all so terrifying. He talks about how it felt to have his alpha drive him away.

“Derek was never supposed to be an alpha,” Chris says at last.

Isaac doesn’t meet his eyes.

“Pushing you away saved your life,” Chris says, and watches the way that Isaac hunches his shoulders defensively like he hasn’t in weeks. “But he was wrong to do it the way he did.”

Isaac uncurls a fraction.

Chris reaches out and puts a hand on Isaac’s shoulder. “He was wrong.”

Isaac swallows, jerks his head in a nod, and then steps away.

Chris pretends not to notice when Isaac scrubs at his eyes.

 

***

 

Once a week Chris and Isaac head to Sainte-Enimie for groceries. The people they meet assume that Isaac is Chris’s son. Isaac doesn’t have either the Languedocien to catch the assumption and correct it, or the ear to make sense of the heavily accented French the locals speak. Chris is sure it sounds nothing like the French he was taught in school. 

And so people mistake Isaac for Chris's son. Isaac doesn't notice, and Chris doesn't correct it.  

He finds that it’s a misconception that’s easy to live with.

 

***

 

“Derek once said that there were humans in the Hale pack,” Isaac says one evening. He’s sitting on the floor in front of the fireplace, a book open in front of him. The firelight makes the angles of his face look like something an artist would sell his soul to paint.

Chris nods, and sets his own book aside. “Yes.”

Isaac chews his bottom lip for a moment. “So a wolf pack can have humans in it?”

“Yes,” Chris says again.

“Is that why I’m not feral?” Isaac asks.

“You’re not feral because your control is good.”

“I need an alpha though, don’t I?” Isaac asks. “Can… can that alpha be human?”

Chris doesn’t quite know how to answer that. A strange sort of warmth blooms in his chest. It’s pride, maybe. Maybe it’s something else.

“I don’t know,” he says at last.

He doesn’t sleep that night.

 

***

 

There’s a small café in Saint-Enimie that Chris likes. He drinks his coffee black, while Isaac loads milk and sugar into his and still grimaces when he drinks it down. The woman in the café makes fun of him for it, but a wrapped candy always finds its way onto Isaac’s saucer: usually a caramel _Babeluttes du Nord_. That’s probably the moment Chris realizes they aren’t considered tourists anymore. Not quite locals yet—too American for that, despite Chris’s family ties to the area—but not tourists either.

Chris looks over toward the counter when he hears Isaac laugh at something the woman says. And then, as though he thinks he shouldn’t, Isaac’s laugh fades, and he flushes as he joins Chris at their table. He ducks his head and doesn’t meet Chris’s gaze.

Chris sips his coffee and wonders if Isaac has ever had anyone in his life who didn’t treat him like shit, including Allison.

Love is pain for this kid.

It probably is for Chris too.

No wonder he’s afraid of it.

 

***

 

Days are okay.

Chris can keep himself busy during the day. There are jobs to do around the house. There’s a training regime to keep up. He keeps his hours regimented. Keeps his body active and his mind distracted.

Nights are harder.

He misses Victoria. He misses Allison.

And there’s a boy sleeping in the next bedroom who looks at him in the mornings like he knows exactly how little he slept, and like it somehow hurts him.

 

***

 

Weeks turn into months. Winter arrives, and the drive down the _draille_ into town becomes more and more precarious with every fall of snow. There are fewer tourists in winter, even though the town looks like a Christmas card. Chris finds himself thinking if they should go further afield one week, to Florac, or maybe even as far as Ales to check out the larger stores. Isaac could probably use some new clothes. Maybe some books. An iPod, since his old one has a cracked screen.

Thinking of buying Isaac a Christmas present makes Chris uneasy in ways he’s nowhere near ready to face yet. Possibly ever.

Chris isn’t sure what they are to one another, but it’s been a long time since he looked at Isaac and saw just a werewolf.

 

 

***

 

The first warning Chris has of visitors is the way Isaac comes tearing back toward the house from across the hill.

“Get into the basement,” Chris tells him. “And stay there.”

Isaac is wild-eyed.

It’s hunters, of course. Nobody else would bother make the precarious drive. Chris knows the men. They’re friendly enough. They’ve heard about what happened in Beacon Hills, and they’re here to offer their condolences and also their assistance.

The hunters are from Normandy. They speak French in short sharp barks that must carry all the way into the basement, and in a regional accent Isaac probably finds close to the French he learned at school. Chris has no doubt Isaac will understand them. 

They talk about the wolves they’ve killed. They talk about skinning them, and hanging their hides in their homes. They talk about pulling screaming pups out of their parents’ arms and dashing their skulls apart on the ground. They talk about how slowly and painfully they can draw a wolf to death.

Chris’s stomach turns, and he sends them away again.

It’s easy enough to play the part of a broken man who wants nothing more to do with hunting.

When he fetches Isaac from the basement, Isaac is pale and quiet. 

 

***

 

Chris is somehow expecting it when his door creaks open in the middle of the night. Somehow expecting it, but his stomach still clenches and his heart skips a beat. He’s facing away from the door, lying on his side. His mattress dips, and there’s a breath of cold air against his skin as Isaac lifts the covers and slides in.

For a moment Chris can’t hear anything except the wild thumping on his own heart, and the roar of blood in his skull. Then that subsides, and he hears Isaac’s uneven breathing; feels it in gusts of warmth that tickle his ear.

Chris rolls over. The night is cloudless, and the moonlight is bright. It makes Isaac look flawless and so very, very young.

“Isaac,” he says, not sure if it’s a warning or an invitation.

“You make me feel safe,” Isaac whispers. He sounds terrified when he says it though. “Please don’t make me go.”

Safe?

Chris is old and tired and he’s killed more werewolves than Isaac has ever met. This isn’t… this isn’t what Isaac needs. Chris isn’t. He can’t be.

“Please,” Isaac whispers again. “ _Please_.”

Chris doesn’t say anything.

He’s not sure how he manages to sleep.

 

***

 

In Saint-Enimie the woman at the café tells Chris that his son is a good boy.

His son.

_Lo filh._

Chris warms with pride, and doesn’t correct the assumption.

 

 

***

 

Chris tells himself it’s fatherly, the way he lets Isaac into his bed.

Chris tells himself it’s a wolf thing, the way Isaac craves closeness.

Chris tells himself it doesn’t mean anything in the cold, hard light of day.

Chris tells himself a lot of things.

 

***

 

Chris makes Isaac feel safe, and there is nothing he will do to taint that trust. There’s a faith to it, a purity in it, that Chris knows he sure as hell doesn’t deserve but he doesn’t want to be the one to destroy it. It’s not as selfish as it sounds. Chris wants something in his life that’s better than him, brighter, and maybe that’s what Isaac’s faith in him is. Chris doesn’t understand it himself. Isaac isn’t naïve. He’s desperate though. He’s a werewolf that turned to a hunter for protection.

At night, when Isaac is curled up in Chris’s bed, Chris tries very hard to remember that this is supposed to be fatherly. He tries very hard to remember that Isaac dated his daughter. And then one night Isaac rolls toward Chris in his sleep, hooks a leg over his, and begins to rub himself against Chris’s thigh. He clings tighter when Chris tries to push him away.

“Isaac,” Chris says, gentle but firm. “Wake up, Isaac.”

“Let me,” Isaac says, breathy, and Chris realizes he’s been awake the whole time. “Please. Let me.”

And Chris crumbles like the weak man he is.

He _takes_.

He unpeels Isaac's pyjamas from him, each inch of unveiled flesh a new revelation. Isaac is pale and beautiful in the moonlight. His curls spill around him like a halo. He looks like something one of the pre-Raphaelites could have painted; some ethereal, other-worldly creature.

And Chris _takes_.

He opens Isaac with his fingers first—slower than seems possible, but still faster than he should— then his dick, and Isaac’s face twists and he hisses at the pain of entry. His fingers tighten on Chris’s shoulders though, and he whispers, “Please, please, please. Alpha, please.”

 _Alpha_.

The word makes Chris surge forward into the boy.

Isaac sucks in a shuddering breath, and then his mouth is seeking Chris’s, tear-damp eyelashes shining in the moonlight.

Chris lets the boy take all the kisses he wants, and rocks them slowly into a rhythm.

Isaac arches his back, his neck cording. “Please. Please.” He’s crying. “ _Please_.”

“Isaac.” Chris cradles the boy’s head between his hands, panic and regret only finding him now he’s already balls deep inside him. “Isaac, look at me.”

Isaac’s eyes flash open, the irises shining gold. “Alpha, please don’t leave me.”

“No,” Chris says. “No, I won’t. I won’t, I promise.”

Isaac clenches down tight on Chris’s dick, and rolls his hips. “Fuck me.” His eyes slide closed as Chris obeys, and his voice rises into a needy whine. His hard dick, trapped between them, is hot and wet. “Oh, God. Oh, God.”

Chris drives into him.

Another flash of gold as Isaac opens his eyes. His head drops back onto the pillow, and he squeezes Chris’s dick again. “ _Daddy_.”

Chris comes harder than he has in a long time.

 

***

 

For the first time in over two hundred and fifty years there is a beast in Gévaudan, and Chris Argent brought him here. He roams the hills during the day, and sleeps in Chris’s bed at night. He lets Chris hold him by the wrists and move him into the positions that Chris wants. He is a beast, but he submits to his alpha.

He is a beast, but he something else too.

Isaac shyly asks for kisses from his daddy before falling asleep, and Chris is pleased to give them to him.

They are both very broken people, but they are learning to heal.

There is a beast in Gévaudan, and a boy in Chris’s bed, and Chris is slowly remembering how to smile.

 

 


End file.
